


The Downfall of Fistandantilus

by Archmagus (John_Heinmiller), John_Heinmiller



Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Heinmiller/pseuds/Archmagus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Heinmiller/pseuds/John_Heinmiller
Summary: I have long been fascinated by the mage known as Fistandantilus. One of the most evil of all people, he still supported good, though always for his own reasons. Contrary to the black and white character we know in Chronicles and Legends, he is actually a person with depth, development and even passions.Some of the traits he has, well I figured there were reasons for them. I always imagined that Takhisis had it in for him simply because he would not serve her all the time. Yea, she can be a real biatch! (remove the a to get the actual word) And he would despise her as well. A love-hate relationship between a goddess and her "creation?" I think that she was the one who "inspired" him to become a god.You will be surprised by one thing. Fistandantilus in this story does not yet want to become a god. The key word here is, yet. And yet, he is also playing around with the idea. Part of him wants it, another part simply wants to rule the earth. He will come around to the idea of removing Takhisis from her throne. Getting to that point will be quite the ride.I also know that people do not understand how he could loop around time like he did. How he did it, and the consequences of it, is most fascinating.Anyway, this is just the beginning. I hope to have more chapters coming out. It should be a wild ride. But do not expect too much introspection. Fistandantilus is not one for that.Please note that this is my first attempt at a story. I hope you enjoy it.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 1





	1. The Mage

He was walking, feeling the strength in his legs, enjoying the power of his steps, as he slowly traveled towards Istar. It was not often that anyone actually enjoyed walking, it was normally a rather mundane effort. Commoners around him preferred to ride, either on horses or in carriages. His fellow mages usually preferred to travel by the way arcane, creating gate spells that would transport them from one place to another instantly. But Fistandantilus often did this after he had gained another life. And why should he not enjoy it. Just a few days ago his body had been rather weak, now it was strong again. He moved with leisurely speed, enjoying the sheer physicalness of it.

He walked alone, midnight black robes gathered around him. His robes were pure black with no runes, for he distained the use of runes to protect him. He walked with no staff, for he distained even the use of a staff. Oh, he owned one, once he had even depended on it. But he had left it centuries ago in his stronghold of Zhaman. He had no need of it. His power was phenomenal, he could defeat a thousand wizards without batting an eye, simply using the power of massed wish spells.

As he walked, carriages and horses moved to the side of the road. Often they stopped and waited, the people praying that he would not notice them. He noticed it with the calm of one who has seen it all before. They feared him. Let them fear him. It made things so much easier for him. Oh, not that everyone feared him, there were those who sought to benefit from him. Sometimes, if he had nothing better to do, he would listen to their proposals. And if he were especially bored, he might even agree to aid them, for a price. Always for a price. But more often than not, he would dismiss the offer with contempt. He did what he wanted to do. Nobody ruled him. 

Well, nobody ruled him but there was one who was really trying. Queen Takhisis, damn her, was constantly declaring that he was hers. It really irritated him to no end. Constantly was she meddling with him, always demanding that he do something that she wanted done. True he occasionally unbent and did what she “requested” but more often than not what she wanted interfered with his plans and desires. It irritated the Abyss out of him. What did she think she was, a goddess?

Still, he had to admit she was useful, or had been. She had, after all, given him the bloodstone. Well, technically she gave it to him. It wasn’t as if she simply showed herself and gave it to him ready to use. Strictly speaking, she had only given him the instructions to make the stone. He had to find the proper stone, get it chained and cast the spell she gave him on it. She never gave him the instructions on how to use it. “When you make it, you will know how to use it” she had said. Still, it had not been difficult to find a good blood-speckled Jasper of the right quality, have a jeweler shape it to the right shape and attach a silver chain to it, then cast the spell that gave it its power. And Takhisis had been right, once he finished making the stone, he had known how to use it. Yes, this gift of Takhisis was most useful. He definitely appreciated what she had done for him.

He grinned in his reverie. He remembered his first victim. And yes, there was such a good, poetic justice to whom he selected. It was most … appropriate and had given him his first life, the first time he had strengthened his life. He shrugged. He was sorry to see that person die to give him life. Oh well, one could not eat eggs without breaking them.

Yes, Takhisis could be useful at times. Thanks to her, he had lived for centuries. Millennia even. He was old, exceedingly old. Older than most elves, and they were extremely long-lived people. Absolutely amazing for a human, a creation of Gillian, who was not expected to live even a hundred years. In fact, he had lived for, how long? He paused, thinking, and realized he had forgotten. Oh well, several millennia at least.

But she could be irritating. Always striving to make him her servant. Oh how he hated it when she tried to do that. Worse, he hated it when she got him to do things she wanted. The effort was irritating. If only he could get rid of her.

Get rid of her. Now there was a thought. It was not the first time he had considered it, but now, walking on the road, he let his mind dwell on the possibility. Getting rid of Takhisis would get rid of a serious irritant. He had needed her to achieve immortality, but now he really did not need her at all. He did whatever he wanted to do. He smiled at the thought. Unless she interfered. Which she did far too often. Hmm. To get rid of Takhisis.

But then, reality took hold. To get rid of Takhisis he would need to become a god, to be able to wield magic at the divine level. Impossible, of course. So he would need divine aid. But who would give him divine aid? Gilean? He was too committed to balance. Besides, Gilian had counseled him to accept death, something he would never do. He could not count on the supreme god of neutrality and freedom. So that left Paladine and the gods of good and order. But as he considered that, he had to laugh at himself. He could imagine Paladine’s reply. “A black robe? Aid evil? Leave me before I crush you like the insignificant bug you are!”

Slowly his smile faded as he took step after step, his pace quite strong and firm. For a while he enjoyed walking but he had to admit, it grew tiring. Oh, not physically tiring, thanks to the sacrifice of his latest apprentice he could walk all day without tiring. No, it was mentally tiring. Boring, really. He did so enjoy doing physical things, but it was something he enjoyed when he had the strength. It was not something he wanted to do all the time, his enjoyment was rapidly waning. He had several more days of this to look forward to. Besides, he would have to sleep out on the road. Him, the great Fistandantilus, sleeping along the road. Disgusting.

Perhaps it was time he did what other mages did and simply gated himself to his destination. It was an easy enough spell for him to do. Let the younger wizards walk the road, or those who had horses and could enjoy riding. He had done enough walking. Time for him to reach his destination. Yes, he would gate. But not directly to his destination. Where he was going, there were protocols to follow. Yes, he would gate, but he would gate to a location he knew just outside of his destination. Yes, that was good enough. He could easily walk the rest of the way.

He stopped right there in the middle of the road. People avoided him as best they could, either stopping or going around him. It was of no concern to him. He took the time and cast the complicated spell. Five minutes later, the gate was standing in front of him, shimmering grey. It always amused him how the gate seemed to be of different colors depending on whom one worshipped, or reputedly worshipped. Every time he cast the gate spell, the gate was grey. When he was young, it had been bright red. Of course Solinari’s mages cast white gates. For some reason, he idly wondered what would cause a gate to be another color, say blue. But he quickly put that out of his head. Ridiculous. Magic was what it was and magic was what it would ever be, a gift of the gods of Solinari, Lunitari and Nuitari.

Bah! He was woolgathering. Time to get moving. With quick steps, he entered the gate.

Right after he passed through, the gate collapsed! The people on the road, sighing with relief, started to act a bit more normally.

*******

It was the time of the daytime audience in the Hall of Audience in the Great Temple of Istar. The mage had gated into a side street near the great temple. Having ascertained that nobody was around when he arrived, he walked around the great hexagonal wall and, when he reached the gate, permitted himself a minute to contemplate the temple itself.

Immense failed to adequately describe the Great Temple, likely the largest ever created by the hands of elves or men. Round it was but the size of it boggled the imagination. It was, in area, a small city of its own, complete with pools, fountains and gardens. Around the edge of the temple were six great towers, each rising to about two hundred feet. Majestic was each tower, in imitation of the Tower of High Sorcery in Istar. But these were slightly taller and they operated as if they were trying to reach the gods in humility and devotion.

Fistandantilus’s eye, however, was drawn towards a seventh tower. Built in the middle of the temple, this tower was immense. Flying buttresses connected the six towers with this one tower which rose to the astonishing height of six hundred feet. Breathtaking would not be the word to describe it. In fact, breathtaking was completely wrong to describe this tower.

The mage sneered as he finished looking at the tower. Who said Takhisis was not active in the tower. While the other towers seemed to be seeking the gods in grace and humility, this tower seemed to rival the gods. Even in the architecture, Takhisis’s influence was displayed. It was a fitting match for towers he had heard about when he was young, towers built by the ogres before they were dumbed down, towers that displayed the might and arrogance of the ogres of Takhisis. Oh yes, Takhisis was definitely involved in the temple. Quite … active … actually.

Walking with the other supplicants, the mage entered the great temple. Along with other people, he slowly walked towards his destination, the great Hall of Audience. There, he would see the famous Kingpriest. He would the Kingpriest a proposal. With luck, the Kingpriest would agree.

Of course, there was the chance the Kingpriest would reject the proposal. If that happened, well the mage had options.

One thing about the great temple. If the mage had entered any other temple, he would have suffered tremendously from the power of the god. If he had entered, for instance, the temple of Mishakal, that goddess would have sent a terrible debilitating condition upon the mage. Even the neutral goddess of commerce, Shinare, would impose a terrible weight on him if he entered Her compound. But the Great Temple was meant for anyone who worshipped any god or goddess to be able to come in. As such, it was the one temple in all of Krynn where no divine power imposed a terrible, debilitating penalty towards one whose presence they objected to.

The mage frowned in concentration as he moved deeper into the vast temple, moving with the others who sought an audience with the Kingpriest. In his mind he started going over what he would say to the head of the church. The odds were against him, he knew it, but he had succeeded in tasks before where the odds against him were greater. And if he failed, well it was not as if this were the only option he had. If he failed, he had options. But if he succeeded….

Not surprisingly, people noticed him and his black robes and began to distance themselves from him. Long ago such actions would have made him smile. Now, he simply noted it, when he paid any attention to it. It was no different now. That said, it did cause others to move aside and let him ass. Good. It would mean he would confront the Kingpriest all the sooner.

Fistandantilus walked into the Hall of Audience, behind two others who seemed just as determined as he was to have an audience. A soft light came from throughout the room, shining on the sacred throne of the Kingpriest. And there, Fistandantilus saw the man he had come to speak to.

Symeon the fourth was not that imposing a man. By stature he was short, stocky and bald. If it had not been for the fact that he was clean shaven, as well as being much too tall, he would have easily passed for a dwarf. Many a person would consider this person to be a nonentity. But Fistandantilus was not fooled. Symeon’s black eyes were shrewd and piercing. And they were locked squarely on the mage. Besides, on his head was the Sapphire Tiara, the symbol of his authority as the Voice of Paladine.

For several minutes the two stared at one another. Finally, the Kingpriest nodded. An elven priest, whom Fistandantilus recognized as the ambitious Quarath, motioned for the one in the front of the line to come forward. But the movement was halted when Symeon raised his hand. “No!,” he said. “Not him.”

Quarath turned and stared at his master, blank astonishment written on his face. But Symeon’s face stayed locked on Fistandantilus, as was Fistandantilus’s face locked on Symeon. Slowly the kingpriest lowered his hand till it was pointing at Fistandantilus.

“Him first. The black robed mage, the one who is freezing the area where he stands. I would deal with him first.”

Quarath nodded, turned and beckoned towards the mage. Fistandantilus strode forward till he was at the foot of the stairs. Protocol forbade him from ascending the stairs. And if he was going to succeed at his goal, he needed to follow protocol. Worse, he needed to persuade this man, this sharp-eyed man to what he wanted. With that in mind, he slowly and gravely bowed at the foot of the throne of the kingpriest.

“Arise my son,” Symeon replied. Fistandantilus straightened and looked the kingpriest squarely in the eye. For another minute, the two locked eyes on each other, as if there was a struggle between the two. Finally, the kingpriest broke the conflict. “Tell me your name, sir wizard.”

Quarath moved to speak but Symeon raised a hand, stopping him. He wanted the mage to announce himself. Slowly but deliberately, the mage straightened his back. Lofty was his demeanor as he proudly said, “I am Fistandantilus, your Goodness.”

Symeon sat back in his chair. “Fistandantilus,” he mused, “the mightiest power for evil in all of Krynn.” He looked at Fistandantilus who calmly returned the gaze. “A man who is even now freezing this chamber by merely standing in it,” Symeon finally observed.

“A curse, I bear,” replied Fistandantilus. “A curse I cannot get rid of.”

“Indeed. And whom gave you this curse, if I may ask?”

Fistandantilus allowed himself a grim smile. “You know her name very well. You oppose her.”

The kingpriest stared hard at the mage. After a minute, he spoke up. “There are many females whose names I know. Including goddesses. Some I oppose. Give me the name of this lady who cursed you.”

“Takhisis.”

“Takhisis,” mused the kingpriest. His brow furrowed in thought. “Why would she do that? It is said that you serve her.”

Fistandantilus shook his head slightly. “I do not serve her,” he said. Then he muttered under his breath, “except, perhaps now and then by happenstance.”

Symeon kept his eye on the mage. “This is most unusual,” he finally replied, “a black robe who does not serve the Queen of Darkness.”

“As you know,” replied Fistandantilus, “my loyalty is given not to Takhisis but to her son, Nuitari.”

“But I believe she is responsible for your age, is she not?” stated Symeon rhetorically.

Fistandantilus merely stared back, refusing to answer.

Finally Symeon asked another question. “So why did Takhisis grace her ablest supporter, you, with this curse that freezes everything when you stand still?”

“I was graced with it as a result of actions that occurred while I was aiding Vinas Solamnus,” replied Fistandantilus.

Symeon’s eyebrow shot up. “You expect me to believe that?” he asked.

“It is true,” interrupted Quarath. “It is known that he aided the founder of Solamnia and the Solamnic knights on a mission of great importance.”

Symeon turned his gaze to rest on his servant, Quarath. Finally, he returned his gaze back to Fistandantilus. “So tell me, what did you do?”

“Praetor Solamnus was sent by Emperor Emman Quisling to rescue his sister, who had been kidnapped,” replied Fistandantilus.

Symeon raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. “That by itself would not be enough for her to grace you with her curse,” he observed. “After all, it was he who rescued the sister, not you.”

“That is only half correct,” responded the mage, “for I was aiding him. At the same time, we took out a number of bandits who had been raiding the empire, as well as cleaned out a nest of,” he paused.

Symeon stared at Fistandantilus. “Go on.”

“A nest of priests of Takhisis,” he concluded.

“Ah,” Symeon leaned forward a bit. “And it was for what you did to her priests that she gave you her curse.”

Fistandantilus nodded.

Symeon sat back. “So tell me, servant of Takhisis who was deemed worthy to receive her curse. What brings you, the greatest living evil on Krynn, here? Why do you seek me out?”

Fistandantilus paused, gathering his thoughts. This was the moment, the moment he was prepared for. If he succeeded now, it would allow him to become part of the Temple system, and, over time, to destroy it from within.

He bowed. “I wish to serve and advise the priesthood.”

Symeon’s eyebrow shot up in astonishment. He turned and looked at an equally astonished Quarath. Quarath looked back at the kingpriest. “I do not know. I know he has been here off and on since I arrived. But while he has long been in Istar, this is beyond what I had ever expected from him.”

“I see,” replied Symeon. He sat back in his throne, thinking. Finally, he responded. “So, the greatest evil on Krynn, the greatest living evil,” he amended, “wishes to serve the primary seat of good. He sat back, curiosity written in his mind. “Why?”

“My knowledge is vast,” replied the mage. “I know about the ways and customs of almost everyone on the continent of Ansalon. I even know about the ways of some peoples on other continents. I can be of great aid to you. I offer you my knowledge and my wisdom.”

The kingpriest sat back, looking hard at the mage. “You did not answer my question,” he stated.

Fistandantilus stared back. "Because I can."

Finally the feared response came. “No.”

Quarath was quick. “If you will be so kind as to leave the same way you came, we can start dealing with other supplicants.”

Fistandantilus masked his response. Outside his face was serene calmness. But inside, bitter disappointment reigned. But this was merely his first attempt. There would be others. Bowing, he turned and, following the pointed directions of Quarath, he quickly made his way out of the hall.

Symeon watched him go. As the dark mage went through the doorway, he sighed. “Who among us is truly innocent?” he said softly to himself.

Fistandantilus, disappointed in his failure yet already planning his next attempt, heard the softly stated question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have long been fascinated by the mage known as Fistandantilus. One of the most evil of all people, he still supported good, though always for his own reasons. Contrary to the black and white character we know in Chronicles and Legends, he is actually a person with depth, development and even passions.  
> Some of the traits he has, well I figured there were reasons for them. I always imagined that Takhisis had it in for him simply because he would not serve her all the time. Yea, she can be a real biatch! (remove the a to get the actual word) And he would despise her as well. A love-hate relationship between a goddess and her "creation?" I think that she was the one who "inspired" him to become a god.  
> You will be surprised by one thing. Fistandantilus in this story does not yet want to become a god. The key word here is, yet. And yet, he is also playing around with the idea. Part of him wants it, another part simply wants to rule the earth. He will come around to the idea of removing Takhisis from her throne. Getting to that point will be quite the ride.  
> I also know that people do not understand how he could loop around time like he did. How he did it, and the consequences of it, is most fascinating.  
> Anyway, this is just the beginning. I hope to have more chapters coming out. It should be a wild ride. But do not expect too much introspection. Fistandantilus is not one for that.
> 
> Please note that this is my first attempt at a story. I hope you enjoy it.


	2. If Not One Way....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dark mage takes a step in his dark plan to control the church, and through the church the world.

The first time the two met it seemed like chance.

Kurnos was disturbed. Well, disturbed was putting it kindly. He was more than disturbed. He was severely agitated. And why not? His master, Symeon the kingpriest of Istar and ruler of the vast Istar Empire, was dying.

Oh, the kingpriest was not dying yet. But he had received a vision from Paladine which told him that he would die within the next twelve months. Symeon had considered this to be so momentous that he had sought out a select few to inform. Kurnos had been one of the select. The condition, of course, was that he could not tell anyone.

Disturbed, Kurnos had wondered around the Great Temple, his visage troubled. Other priests and workers in the temple had noticed the troubled demeanor and had tried to enquire. Upon being rebuffed, they had turned away, some with troubled faces. When he tried to perform his duties, his agitation interfered. Another, lower ranking priestess was called to perform his duties, leaving Kurnos to feel even more upset.

Finally, while he was walking down one of the hallways, he was intercepted by Quarath. Kurnos would have simply moved on, but Quarath grabbed his arm to stop him. When Kurnos glared at the elf, Quarath simply gestured towards a hidden alcove.

“You are very disturbed, aren’t you?”

Kurnos started to reply, then stopped. “This is not private enough,” was all he said, then he took off for his room. Concerned, Quarath followed.

When they reached his room, Kurnos, having had time to calm himself from Quarath’s earlier action, simply responded. “So you, and everyone else noticed how disturbed I am.”

“Disturbed is not what I would say. You were clearly agitated. So much that you could not do your normal work.”

“And why not? How often do you learn that the one you look up to is going to die within a year?”

“I admit it is troubling,” admitted Quarath. “But what can we do about it? You heard Symeon. Paladine himself told him and we know….”

“I know that,” interrupted Kurnos impatiently. “There is nothing we can do about it. Nothing. And that is most disturbing.”

Both were silent for a minute. Then Quarath spoke. “Look, Kurnos. I know you are upset over it. I am upset over it and I am an elf. I have to deal with it in my elvish way. But you, a human….”

“Yes, what about it?” snapped Kurnos.

“I meant no disrespect,” soothed Quarath. “I was just going to point out that sometimes, when humans are agitated, they need to do something physical, something to get their minds off their megrims.”

Kurnos scowled but slowly nodded. Quarath was making sense.

“Now you clearly have a bad case of megrims. So I have a solution. We were about to send Anastalsa with a team to gather some supplies. A large amount of supplies, actually.” Quarath showed him a list. “The work is not too difficult. Officially you just need to make sure the carts are full of the requisitioned supplies, sign the bills and return. Simple work. But really,” Quarath raised his hand to cut off Kurnos’s anticipated objection, “the people assigned are never enough. And this load looks like it will be larger than normal. You will be busy hauling grain bags and other foodstuffs onto the carts. After a few hours of it, your mind should be clearer and you will be able to return with a better heart.”

“And Anastalsa?” asked Kurnos.

“I will inform her that today she should be busy praying,” responded Quarath. He shrugged. “It is true enough, she does need to pray more and it will be good for her.”

Kurnos nodded his head and Quarath thrust the papers into his hands. Half an hour later, he was busy leading a train of carts to the market.

It was every bit as physical as Quarath had promised. The load was larger than expected and the people not enough. In addition to trying to determine which bag should go onto which cart, Kurnos was quite busy lifting and carrying heavy bags. After a few hours, he was quite tired. But he had to admit the elf was right. It did get his mind off the issue, allowing him to calm down. He would have to make sure that he thanked Quarath when he saw him next.

Kurnos was leading the cart train back to the temple when he heard a voice in the shadow call out his name. “Kurnos!”

Calling a halt to the train, he tried to pierce the darkness in the shadows. Near him, he heard Delisandria suddenly breathe in quickly. “The Dark One,” she whispered.

“Kurnos,” the voice repeated. “Quickly. You need to hear this now!”

Kurnos frowned as his eyes finally found the speaker. Long, robes, black as night, marked him as a magic user of evil, but no runes were written on his robes. A red pendant dangled in front of him, the only piece of jewelry visible. Of his face, only his lower jaw from which was a steel grey beard grew, nicely trimmed. Kurnos found himself suddenly sucking in his breath for he suddenly knew this person.

Fistandantilus, the Dark One.

Frowning, Kurnos turned to Delisandria. “Lead the rest of the train back to the temple and, if I am not there, oversee the unloading of the supplies. I will see what the Dark One wants.”

“I need to go with you,” shot back Delisandria. “When dealing with him, two is better than one.”

Kurnos thought for a second. She was right. There was a strange power that emanated from the Dark One, a power that was not normal. Even other mages feared it. “Very well, accompany me. Salistar?” he cried out. The priest turned his head and looked at Kurnos, waiting. “Take the train to the temple and oversee the unloading. Delisandria and I will be back as soon as we can.”

The priest nodded and started the train moving. Kurnos and Delisandria turned aside and approached the dark mage.

Kurnos folded his arms as he approached. “What do you want, Dark One?” he asked. “I assure you, if you try anything….”

“A priestess of Mishikal has been attacked. Even how her life blood is draining.”

Kurnos stared, almost slackjawed. A priestess of Mishikal? Attacked? In Istar?

Delisandria recovered first. “Dark One, if this is some sort of trick….”

“Why would I want to trick you?” the Dark One asked. “I have no reason to do so. I assure you, a priestess of Mishikal has been assaulted.”

“What of her attackers?” asked Kurnos.

“What of them?” asked Fistandantilus in return. “The life of the priestess is at issue here. Head to the other side of the market, on Trottingael road. There you will find her. Hurry, her life drains away.”

The Dark One then turned away. “I will deal with the attackers, in my own way. You deal with the priestess,” he called as he moved with surprising speed.

Fistandantilus disappeared. Kurnos and Delisandria stared at where he had vanished. For a few seconds they were speechless. Then, Delisandria spat on the ground. “A likely story,” she said. “He probably made that up to divert us.”

Kurnos nodded while staring at the space where the mage had disappeared. “You are probably right, but do we dare take the chance he is telling us the truth?”

Delisandria looked at Kurnos. “Hate to say it, but you are right. Whatever his plan is, he has succeeded.”

The two turned and ran back to the market. Racing through the market, they found Trottingael road. There, just as the dark one said, was a cleric of Mishikal. A dark red stain on her blue robes indicated a violent assault.

“He spoke the truth,” whispered Delisandria in shock.

Kurnos was equally grim. “Who dares to attack a priestess here in Istar?” he asked in a low voice.

“I do not know but we need to get her aid and fast.” Delisandria knelt and whispered a brief prayer to Paladine. The wound on the redheaded cleric closed.

“Not enough, I am afraid,” Kurnos observed. “Pick her up. I will transport us to the temple.”

Delisandria picked up the cleric and held out her hand to Kurnos. Kurnos whispered a brief prayer and they were instantly transported away from the road.

******

Several weeks later, Kurnos was walking along a road from an alehouse when he spotted the Dark One. Making an instant decision, he turned and walked towards the mage.

The Dark One nodded as Kurnos approached. “I trust the cleric is well?”

Kurnos nodded. “She survived her ordeal and is back in the Temple of Mishikal where she belongs.” Kurnos paused, thinking. “I recall a story I heard of two people who were found dead. Not a mark was found on them but their faces were frozen in extreme horror.”

Fistandantilus smiled. “Let’s just say that the perpetrators are even now in the Abyss facing Takhisis.”

Kurnos shivered. “Those ways are not our ways,” he stated. “Better if they had been arrested and tried, if justice had taken its course.”

“And what would the result have been?” the Dark One asked.

Kurnos remained silent. There was nothing he could say that could counter what the Dark One was saying.

The Dark One nodded. “I do sympathize with you, but as you would admit, justice has been done. My way, which is harsher than yours, but just as just.”

Kurnos nodded albeit somewhat reluctantly. “I must admit you have a point,” he confessed. “In any case, I wished to thank you for your timely aid.”

The Dark One nodded. “I am grateful my advice was taken and she is alive,” was his response.

Kurnos considered. This was not what he thought this evil man would be like. Courteous? Respectful? Patient? Serving good and punishing evil? This man wore the robes of darkness, declaring his allegiance towards evil. Worse, there were stories about him that, if only some were true, indicated that this man had indulged in some of the greatest evil imaginable. There was good reason why he was called the Dark One. Yet here he was, serving good.

He shook his head. It was all so confusing. Nothing was black and white. But then, he had learned that a long time ago.

He bowed and started to turn, but then paused. For some reason curiosity was coursing through him.

Turning back, he asked the question that was in his heart. “Tell me Dark One. Why did you aid us?”

The mage sighed and seemed to turn his head away. “You would not believe me if I told you,” he replied.

“Perhaps not,” Kurnos admitted, “but I am curious and I did ask.”

“I had my reasons,” was the reply.

Kurnos simply stood there while the Dark One seemed to debate with himself. Finally, the Dark one sighed. “I think you know about my attempt to advise the Temple,” he stated.

“Ah, so you are still trying.” Kurnos observed.

“No, I am not,” responded the mage. “Why should I?”

“Well, your desire to advise us was rejected,” stated Kurnos.

“Exactly!” replied Fistandantilus. “It was rejected. I know when I am not wanted.” He paused, head bowed. “Still, I do wish Symeon had listened to me.”

“What for?” asked Kurnos, clearly suspicious.

The mage looked at Kurnos. “Look at that poor priestess who was almost killed,” he replied. “I may not be omnipotent but I could have helped prevent that situation.”

“So you say,” responded Kurnos.

“True.” The mage seemed to muse. “I know you have no reason to believe me. I admit my reputation precedes me. But I have served good in the past and hope to do so again.”

The mage paused considering. “You have no reason to trust me, I admit it,” he confessed. “You call me the Dark One, and for good reason. The deeds I have done in the past….” He paused and Kurnos was stunned that this mage would admit to having done evil in the past. Then the mage shrugged. “Regardless, I have also done good in the past, and I propose to continue doing good in the future. These robes,” he lifted his arms and indicated the robes he was wearing, “simply means that my methods are not as hidebound as yours are.”

“Hidebound?” asked Kurnos.

“It means I have greater freedom of action. Which is part of the reason why I have the reputation I have.”

Kurnos nodded. Maybe the Dark One was right. Still, he was somehow extending his life by means only he seemed to know. He doubted that could be any good. And, the longer he was standing here, the colder it got. He shivered.

The mage nodded. “I see my curse is affecting you,” he replied.

Kurnos glanced sharply at the mage. “Curse?”

“You have not heard of it?” the mage enquired? Kurnos shook his head and the mage proceeded. “I simply helped clean out a nest of vipers. Takhisis was most displeased and cursed me for it.”

Kurnos was astonished. This mage seemed to be astonishing him more often than he expected. “You turned against your queen?” he finally managed to get out.

The mage shrugged. “I was never her servant, though some would claim that I was. I simply hated the hidebound rules. Takhisis and her cleric were doing some evil. I simply helped take care of it.”

Kurnos sighed. “I wish I could trust you,” he confessed.

The Dark One shrugged. “Who among us is truly innocent?” he asked.

Kurnos starred. This was the mantra of the kingpriest, the mantra that he often used when he was confused. And here this dark mage was saying it. It was astonishing.

He looked down, clearly confused. “I do not know what to say,” he admitted.

“Then please, consider what I have to offer,” the mage continued. “While I cannot aid and advise the Temple, perhaps you, personally, would accept my advice.”

Kurnos was stunned. This mage was now offering to advise him? Him? Admittedly he was a high ranking member of the priesthood, but he was not the kingpriest. “I am astonished at your temerity. You were forbidden to advise the temple, but you want to advise me.” He looked squarely at the mage’s face, or what he could see of it. It was hard to see, one only saw the nose, the mouth and the beard, not the eyes. But he tried. “Why?” he demanded.

“Because I have reason to believe you will be soon selected to be the next kingpriest of Istar,” came the reply.

Now Kurnos was more than stunned. He was outraged. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. “No!” he exclaimed. “You lie!”

Fistandantilus shrugged his shoulders. “You will see,” was all he said. Turning, he walked off.

Kurnos watched him leave, his mind in turmoil. The Kingpriest dying, he to be the successor? It was impossible. No, the Kingpriest was going to die, Paladine himself had informed his chief cleric of that dread fact. But the claim that he would become the new Kingpriest? Impossible! That was an outright lie!

Turning, he stalked away from the mage. Vowing to never have any dealings with the mage in the future, he quickly returned to the Great Temple. He also strove to put out what Fistandantilus had told him, he strove to do his duty and to listen only to what was good and holy.

But he remembered it when, several months later, Symeon summoned him and calmly informed him that he, Kurnos, was to be the heir to the clerical throne.

*******

Kurnos was upset. Everything was going exactly as the Dark One had foreseen. He was now the heir to the throne of the kingpriest and as such was now the number two man in the empire. He even had that arrogant elf Quarath bowing to him; true it was only occasionally, but he was bowing to him.

Even better, just last month Symeon had suffered a heart attack. It was fortunate that Kurnos was there when it happened, he was able to save Symeon. Unfortunately, it left the kingpriest bedridden and his speech was slurred. Effective control of the church and the empire had passed to him as Symeon strove to relax as much as possible. It was only a matter of time before Symeon died and control passed to him.

Everything was looking up for him. It was just a matter of time. But that was the problem, it was a matter of time. The year was not over. Symeon, though bedridden, was still active and aware. Most of the time he spent in reading. Much of it was literature, but he also read some of the reports. When he made a decision, though his aids and orderlies could hardly understand it, it had the full power of the kingpriest behind it.

Kurnos wanted that power. He dreamt of it, lived for it. Oh, he had always dreamed he was destined for greatness. He had tried to tame his ambitions when he became one of the highest ranking members of the church. But when he became the heir, well it was as if a block was suddenly removed. He still mourned the death of Symeon but underneath it all, he wanted to be the one in charge.

For this reason, he was seeking out the Dark One. He wanted to know if there was a way he could circumvent the situation, to speed up the death of the old and usher in himself as the new.

The problem was, he dared not go to the Dark One’s residence. The Temple had spies everywhere, they would report if he went to that dark place. They would also report if he went to the tower of High Sorcery. Though the tower was reputed to be one of the most beautiful in all Ansalon, the kingpriest had made his wish well known; no contact with the tower unless it was under official business. Kurnos chaffed but he bowed to that restriction.

But even then, his meetings with the Dark One had been noted. Before Symeon had suffered his debilitating stroke, he had summoned him about the meetings. Kurnos had professed that he had never sought out the Dark One, that the Dark One had always sought him out. Symeon had been concerned over that bit of information. When Kurnos stated that the Dark One had actually aided in the preservation of more than one priest, he had been more than concerned. He calmly informed his heir that Fistandantilus was a dangerous man, devoted towards evil, and that he had a reason for what he was doing. Kurnos had agreed but stated that if the Dark One wanted to support evil by saving the lives of good priests, well then in his mind evil was stabbing itself. Symeon had still been concerned and asked Kurnos to take care, which Kurnos promised to do.

Because of this, the last thing he wanted to do was to seek out the Dark One. But who else could he turn to. He could only hope that he found him somewhere and that the two could talk.

“Kurnos.”

Kurnos turned towards the voice. There was the Dark One, somewhat hidden by the shadows.

Effecting an air of indifferent curiosity in case someone was watching, he turned and moved towards the Dark One. Coming up to him, he nodded his head. “Greetings Fistandantilus.”

The mage glanced around, then spoke softly. “You wanted to see me.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Yes.” Kurnos paused, then asked the question that was in his heart. “Do you know when Symeon will die?”

The mage shook his head. “That is up to the gods. Knowledge of when he will die has not been granted to me.” He paused, then spoke softly. “Indeed, it may be that the gods are leaving it up to chance to a certain degree.”

“Up to chance?”

Fistandantilus nodded. “The whims of fate as well as the wills of individual people. He could die tomorrow, or he could die several months from now. Only one thing is for certain. He will be dead before four months have passed.”

Kurnos let out a frustrated sigh. “I wish he were gone now. Not that I do not want him to suffer evil,” he backtracked. “Please. I would never wish that on anyone. But I do wish he were already on his final reward.”

The dark mage seemed to stand there for a bit. “You are frustrated that he is hanging on, denying you your right to rule as you see fit.”

“There is some truth to that,” Kurnos acknowledged. “But there is more.” When the Dark One indicated that Kurnos should continue, he did. “Symeon is hurt. He cannot move much. He cannot walk. He can barely write. About all he can do is to sit in bed and read.”

The dark mage just stood there but Kurnos was convinced he was thinking. “I might point out that Symeon thinks he has a duty to remain active for as long as he can. In this, he is following the elvish dictum of the importance of life,” he eventually replied.

Kurnos nodded. “True,” he agreed, “it is one of our most important dictums. But how can such a life be worth living?”

The mage asked, curious, “Why do you say that?”

“I mean, would it not be better for him if he passed on into Paladine’s bosom and allowed me to rule? I mean, he would be free of the pain. That is most important, is it not?” he concluded.

The mage nodded. “There may be a way I can aid you.”

Kurnos looked at him, his eyes suddenly sharp. “You can? How?”

The mage paused a minute. “You do know that I am not bound by the limitations that those who officially serve good are bound to.”

Kurnos paused, suddenly wary. “I do know it.”

“Well, I can….” The mage suddenly paused, as if rethinking it over. “On second thought, perhaps not.”

“What do you mean?” Kurnos asked, suddenly frustrated.

“Well, I was thinking of using a means that is normally considered evil. Even though the purpose would be for the good,” explained the mage. “But when I think of it, I should not do such a thing. Besides, I would only aid you and aiding you in this would be wrong.”

Kurnos glared at the mage. “I think that as a high ranking cleric of Paladine, I am better suited to know what is good and what is not,” he retorted.

The mage seemed to collapse. “Perhaps you are right.”

“I know I am right.”

“I will bow to your superior wisdom,” the mage replied. Then he thought. “What I can do is to summon a spirit, an agent of the Abyss. Under your guidance, he can do what is necessary, saving Symeon a great amount of pain. Of course, you would be in charge after that.”

Kurnos was shaken. “I can see why you hesitated. Any spirit of the Abyss is not to be trifled with.”

“True.”

“Still, it would aid Symeon, preventing him from suffering any more pain and weakness.”

“That too is true,” muttered the mage.

Kurnos stood there thinking for a minute. Finally, he made his decision. “Do it as you see fit,” he said.

The Dark One nodded.

Kurnos then paused. “I will need an excuse as to why you and I were talking,” he said.

“There is a dwarven cleric who is being attacked as we speak.”

“A dwarven cleric?” sniffed Kurnos with distaste. “Does not that mean he worships Reorx?”

“The forger of the world,” the mage acknowledged. “I have heard that Paladine and Reorx are friends.”

“Hmph.”

The mage moved a bit closer. The coldness of his presence was causing Kurnos to shiver. “I thought that all creatures deserved Paladine’s blessing. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

Kurnos bowed his head, abashed. “No, you are right. Thanks for reminding me. Where is the dwarf?”

Fistandantilus told him and Kurnos immediately left to take care of the dwarven cleric.

******  
The next day, Kurnos was walking along an emptier part of Istar when he heard his name spoken. Moving towards the voice, he was not surprised when he saw the Dark One standing in the shadows.

“Greetings, Dark One.”

“Greetings Kurnos.”

“Well, do you have it?” Kurnos asked impatiently.

Fistandantilus nodded. “I do. But not with me.”

Kurnos glared. “I thought you would have it with you so I could take it.”

Fistandantilus shook his head. “I would not be so gauche. What I have summoned can be commanded. And, as you would be the one best suited to know when to use it, it will be commanded by you.”

“I, command it?” Kurnos asked.

“Indeed,” responded the mage. “But to command it, you need to know its name. Not just any name. Its true name.”

“So would I see it then?”

“There is no need. Simply command it and it will do as you will.”

“I see,” nodded Kurnos. Then, impatient, he said, “So, Dark One. What is its name?”

“Listen well to what I say,” replied the mage, “for I will say this only once. After I complete the spell, the spirit will be bound to you, ready to perform one task. Once you tell it that task, it will perform it to the best of its ability. Then, it will return to the Abyss.”

“You have foreseen everything, I see,” observed Kurnos with a degree of respect.

“Of course,” stated Fistandantilus. Now, listen.”

Kurnos stood there, waiting.

“Sathira! Hear me. Know that it is Kurnos, cleric of Paladine, who wishes to use you. Listen to him. Do as he tells you. Then, after you have completed your task, return to the Abyss, your onus complete.”

Kurnos looked at the mage. “So this….”

“Mention not his name until you are ready to command him” stated the mage. You can only say it once.”

But why can I not send him to do the deed immediately?” asked Kurnos.

“You could. In fact, you would know best when to invoke him,” answered the mage. “But I was thinking that maybe it would be best to send him tonight, while most priests were asleep. They would not be aware of what good you are trying to do for the kingpriest and would do their best to send it back to the Abyss.”

“True, you are right,” mused Kurnos. “Very well. I will invoke the spirit tonight. I thank you for saving the kingpriest great pain.”

“One last thing.” The Dark One gave Kurnos a golden ring. “Be sure to wear this ring when you say the words. It is a ring of guidance and guardianship, it will allow you to control the spirit.”

“I thank you.” Kurnos put the ring in his purse.

The mage bowed. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, there is not. I already have an excuse in mind in case I am questioned.”

“Very good.” With that, the Dark One walked away.

******  
That night Kurnos invoked the fiend from the Abyss and sent him to kill Symeon. And Symeon, asleep, was an easy prey. That said, Kurnos wanted it to look like it was an accident, or that he simply died on his own. Fiends from the Abyss do not know how to cause peaceful death, they love causing pain and anguish. Still, Sathira did manage. Somewhat! Symeon did not die, but he never got out of bed again. He went into a coma. Just how Sathira did it, well Fistandantilus never enquired.

Symeon would remain in a coma for two more months before he finally, mercifully, died. And then, well Fistandantilus was not an advisor to the temple but he did have the ear of the kingpriest. It was a step in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to show Fistandantilus at his most seductive, his most tempting.


	3. The Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Dark One learns of a prophecy.

Fistandantilus had every reason to be pleased with the success of his plan so far. He had managed to get rid of Symeon and once again had limited access to the Great Temple. True, he was not able to truly advise the new Kingpriest like he wanted to, but then Istar was not built in a day.

He was, however, disturbed by certain aspects of Kurnos. Kurnos did talk to him occasionally, even listened to him, but he was apt to do whatever he wanted to do. Worse, he was highly ambitious. He now ruled the Istarian Empire and all its peoples, but unlike many predecessors he tried to truly rule all aspects of the empire. This was somewhat disturbing to the mage. Oh, he was not opposed to it in principle, but he wanted to be the one who ruled the empire. A kingpriest who was trying to be diligent was not conducive to the archmage’s plans. Far better would be for the kingpriest to be somewhat standoffish, distressed by evil and desirous of doing good. Fistandantilus smiled to himself. He knew very well what evil could be performed in the name of good.

Oh he was proud of the way he played Kurnos, the support, the help, the sudden doubt, the step backwards, all leading him onward. He had centuries to perfect his craft of temptation, he was quite skilled at it now. And Kurnos had fallen for it. When he had informed the mage that he knew what was good and what was not, he had fallen right into Fistandantilus’s trap. A truly good man would never have done what Kurnos did. Fistandantilus had to admit that much. But then, his ambition and pride was his downfall. There were a few kingpriests who even now resided in the Abyss. Kurnos was very likely to join their number.

Unfortunately, Kurnos was not well liked. His attitude was, to put it kindly, arbitrary. Nobody doubted him to his face, but the mage kept his ear open and had learned that there was suspicion about the death of Symeon. Many people considered Kurnos to be the murderer. It was all too convenient that Symeon had gone into a coma before he could remove Kurnos from the succession. Many whispered that Kurnos, through his ties to the Dark One, Fistandantilus sometimes smiled when he heard that term, had been the one who unleashed the fiend of the Abyss. But that was it, they whispered, they dared not speak it out loud. Fistandantilus gave a knowing grin, they did not know how right they were.

So he would need to replace Kurnos. But he had time. Meanwhile, he could look around for the proper kingpriest, the one who would destroy the church, allowing him to take over and dominate all of Ansalon. That was, of course, simply the first step towards ruling the entire world.

And, of course, there was always the option of using the kingpriest to become a god. Fistandantilus immediately crushed that thought. It was worthless. He had no reason to become a god.

So he had two things to do. First, he had to keep Kurnos in power, at least till he found a suitable replacement. And two, lay down his plans to destroy the church and take over in the power vacume.

But first things first. He needed to find an apprentice. Oh, he always had apprentices. Some he used. Some he taught and unleashed onto the world. And some were … special. It had been a while since he had a special apprentice. His hand went to his bloodstone pendant. He needed a special apprentice soon.

So it was time for him to go to the tower. He would let it be known he was looking for an apprentice. Naturally they would come flocking to him. He would examine and test them. And keep the best one.

With that in mind, he created a gate, walked through it, and was inside the tower before the next beat of his heart.

******

It was almost a year before he returned. Finding an appropriate apprentice was always such time consuming work. But, as always, it was rewarding work. He had felt younger and more energetic a few times but not many.

He immediately saw Kurnos. The Kingpriest had his issues but fortunately nothing too serious. He gave some advice deliberately designed to make him more indebted to him.

That should have been the end of it, except that Kurnos had some very interesting information to tell him.

“I have just learned that Symeon has sent multiple people to find the Harbinger and bring him back to Istar. That would be the end of my reign!”

Fistandantilus was astonished. A Harbinger? Coming to Istar to replace Kurnos? But he decided to maintain an air of indifference. “Indeed. And just who is this Harbinger?” he scoffed. “And why would he replace you?”

“Quiet about that,” whispered Kurnos in alarm. “We both know how the prior kingpriest died.”

“Indeed we do. And you have strength, my friend, strength enough to deal with any upstart.”

Kurnos shook his head. “It was all due to the prophecy. Kurnos looked at the mage, curious. “Don’t you know about the prophecy?”

Now Fistandantilus was curious. “What prophecy?”

“Why, the Harbinger prophecy. It was given to Psandros the Younger by Paladine years ago.”

That changed everything. If Paladine was involved, then the game was really afoot. He needed to find out about this prophecy and fast.

He quickly got the information he needed from Kurnos where the prophecy was located. Making his excuses to the Kingpriest, Fistandantilus left for the chancellery library. If the book was anywhere in the temple, it would be there.

He entered the chancellery library and paused. There was a cleric there, a balding cleric who was already sitting there. He was leaning over a desk, his face seriously focused on his task. He was writing something. What it was he was writing was quickly determined by the disks that he kept glancing at. He smiled. The man was translating the Disks of Mishakal. Obviously a minor cleric, low in the temple ranks.

How to get him to move without upsetting him. Or better, simply how to get him to allow him to get to the book. While he was pondering, the cleric suddenly started, then looked up.

“Hello. Can I help… you?” the cleric trailed off, clearly stunned. His face, at once anguished and irritated, seemed to move on its own until it settled on a look that was absolutely indescribable. His breathing seemed to speed up until he seemed to be gulping in air, though it quickly slowed down as he achieved mastery over himself. Finally, he asked, “What do you want, Dark One?”

“May I please ask for your name, kind sir?” asked the mage, striving to speak kindly.

The cleric nodded. “Denubis of Solamnia.” Fistandantilus could see the nerves that were wracking the cleric. “And you are Fistandantilus, am I right?”

“Yes, I am,” the mage replied.

The cleric paused. “I doubt you came here to ask me my name,” he observed.

“That is correct. There is a book here that I wished to read.”

“You do know that special permission must be obtained to enter the library,” the cleric said.

This astonished the mage. It was obvious the cleric was afraid, but there was an iron core within him. At the same time, he did not seem to be a very complicated man. Simple, Fistandantilus decided, yet good. Very likely he would be one who would heal you if you needed it, much like the clerics of Mishakal. Yet the fact that he wore the white robes and bore the medallion of Paladine.

A very dangerous man. One who likely was closer to Paladine than the Kingpriest was. Fistandantilus would have to be very careful around him.

Best to deceive by telling the truth. This was not the easiest thing to do, but it would have to do.

“I do not have special permission, but I do know that I could get it.”

Denubis was definitely nervous, but he held his ground. “Then, I must ask you to get it.”

Fistandantilus wavered as to what he should do. He did not want to let Kurnos know that he was interested in the prophecy. But he needed to read it. That said, he thought he sensed a disturbance within this Denubis. It looked like the priest had a stomach issue. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

“I could get it,” started Fistandantilus.

“Then do so,” replied a very nervous Denubis.

“But it would be so tedious, take so much time and he is so very busy,” stated Fistandantilus. “Besides, unless my eyes deceive me, I sense you have a stomach problem.”

Denubis cursed very softly. Fistandantilus barely heard him say it. But when he said it, he knew how he should proceed.

I do not think that anyone should have to remain on station while suffering, especially when they can relieve themselves,” Fistandantilus stated.

Denubis shook his head, but the mage could tell there was some reluctance in it. “I need to stay here.”

“Not when there is someone who is willing to guard for you,” coaxed Fistandantilus.

Denubis sat there, stunned. “Y-you a-are of-fering…” he stuttered.

“I would not have said it otherwise,” replied the mage. “Here, tell you what. Show me where the book I need is, then go deal with your stomach. I will quickly read the book and stand guard till you return.”

“I dunno,” Denubis wavered. He did not want to leave the library guarded by the dark mage, but he did need to get his stomach treated. Fistandantilus could see this struggle in his face.

“I will tell you what. After I put the book back, I will help you translate the disks till you return,” Fistandantilus offered.

That did it. He could see Denubis’s eyes brighten a bit. “You, you will?”

“I offered, didn’t I?” asked the mage. “And I always keep my word.”

Denubis thought about it for a minute. Finally he pointed. “The blue book titled _What Shall Come _. Please, do not do anything other than what you promised to do.” Having said this, Denubis got up and walked quickly out of the library.__

Fistandantilus smiled. Definitely a simple man. Upright too. He would not be corruptible like Kurnos, but in small things he was malleable. Definitely a good man. Fistandantilus wondered for a moment if he should find a way to promote Denubis towards the kingpriestship. Then he decided against it. Denubis was a simple man. Too simple. He would reject it.

Quickly he moved to where Denubis had pointed. After a short search, he found the book he was looking for. _What Shall Come by Psandros_ Impatient, he pulled down the tome. Flipping open the pages, found what he was looking for. _The Prophecy of The Harbinger._ Quickly he scanned the short prophecy, growing grim as he read it.

_When darkness threatens the whole of the church  
And threatens all good with unholy research  
The great harbinger will rise to the peak  
He ruins the darkness and stops what it seeks._

Snapping the book shut, he replaced it where he got it. Then he went and sat at the desk and, using a few minor spells, got the pen to start writing for him in Solamnic. He had promised Denubis that he would guard the library until he returned and he was determined to keep his word. He had a reputation to maintain, after all, and breaking his word to this lowly cleric would not help it at all.

He waited till Denubis returned. Denubis was extensive in his thanks but it was obvious he made him quite nervous. Besides, having gotten what he wanted, he needed to leave. He therefore left the temple and went back to where he lived, where he stayed up all night, thinking about what he had just read.

 _When darkness threatens the whole of the church_ obviously that was him. And the second line fit too. But the third line and fourth lines troubled him. Was he to be stopped? That was ugly indeed. He would have to seriously look into this.

The next day, he returned to the temple. He had decided to test whomever this “Harbinger” was. He would also see if he could influence just who became the Harbinger. Either way, it was time to increase the developing paranoia of Kurnos. And he knew how to do it in such a way as to inflame the people around the empire against him. All he had to do was to inform him was that the people outside Istar were arising against him. Which was true enough, the policies of the kingpriestship had been particularly bad for a long time. He knew Kurnos, mad about his own power, would do the rest.

Meanwhile, he had to find this person who was looking for the Harbinger. What was her name? Illiya? Illisya? He would have to get the name right before he could start looking for her. But he could not show too much interest in her, it could get Kurnos riled.

The question was, should he stop her or should he divert her? He had many spells and abilities that he could use to find her. But she could be looking for a long while. Patience! Patience!

Fistandantilus finally got the name of the cleric and started to examine her search. He dared not influence it for fear of going to war with Paladine or making things easier for Takhisis. It was a delicate balancing game he had to play. But he remained in the background, watching and waiting but not interfering.

And then the day seemed to come. A priest had been declared to be the long awaited Harbringer. His name was Ptalamir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a short chapter. But it is a critical one, in my opinion.  
> I am starting to diverge from cannon here. The name of the Kingpriest who will destroy Istar is just one of the divergences. As we continue on, there will be more divergences.  
> Of course, my main focus is on Fistandantilus. What makes him tick, what his thinking is, what moves him. And most importantly, what his evil is.  
> You may be noticing one divergence. According to cannon, he was already thinking about becoming a god. But this I do not see happening, not yet. There will be time enough for him to make his decision. A hint - it will NOT happen before the cataclysm. But I do see in him a longing to do it, a longing he ruthlessly suppresses as best he can. HAH! Good luck with that.  
> The Dark One does not realize it, but he has already started along the path towards his own destruction.  
> The next chapter will be another step. And in it, we will see the evil of Fistandantilus revealed.


	4. The Rise of Ptalamir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man emerges and replaces the current kingpriest

Fistandantilus was alerted to the existence of the so-called Harbinger by a revolt that was occurring in the outskirts of Istar.

At first thought, he could not believe his eyes. The so-called Harbinger, Ptalamir was a simple, unassuming cleric who hid out in a self-made monastery. The world, with its commitments to power, revolted him. Evil dismayed him. All he seemed to want to do was to worship Paladine.

That said, he seemed to have an astonishing healing ability. It was as if the divine power of the gods was channeled more purely though him. From what he could tell through his scrying, this simple, unassuming priest had been able to perform divine miracles that a number of kingpriests had not been able to perform.

Astonishing, really.

He was not certain how it began, but from what he could determine it was a revered daughter who had found him and convinced him that he had to claim the throne of the Kingpriest. Other priests and even knights of Solamnia had joined his crusade and had dedicated themselves to him. Many people had heard of his miracles and were supporting him, claiming that he was the real kingpriest who would bring goodness back to all of Istar.

And the current kingpriest? Kurnos the Usurper? For people were now calling him the Usurper. It did not bode well for him. Those who supported him supported him reluctantly. He knew it. Even he supported the current kingpriest reluctantly. He had been a means to gain influence in these hallowed halls, but he was not fond of the man. He would love to replace him.

With Ptalamir? The thought struck him. Maybe it would be the right thing. Of course, it was risky. If Ptalamir really was this Harbinger, it could be very risky to aid him. But he was convinced that if anyone was the Harbinger, it was Loralon. No, he would follow his own counsel and surreptitiously aid Ptalamir. That is, after he found a way to test the man.

And there was something else. He had learned that one of the books that describe the grim portals that guard the entrance to the Abyss was located in the library, almost certainly in the chancellery library. It seemed to be where all the really important works the temple had were stored. He wanted to read it, to read up on it, to make sure he knew what was entailed to open it. He wanted to make sure that nobody would ever open it.

And of course, there was always the chance he could open it to challenge Takhisis.

ARGH! Fistandantilus wrenched his thoughts away from that dangerous direction.

He sensed before he heard the footsteps that were walking purposely towards him. He sighed. Though it was not the kingpriest, Kurnos had need of his advice. Very well. As the footsteps approached, he signed and turned. Maybe he could use Kurnos to test this Ptalamir. Yes. When he thought about it, it was all shaping up nicely.

The cleric, a young priest, bowed. “The kingpriest wants to see you in the Hall of Audience.”

“Very well. I will see him immediately.”

The young priest bowed then turned and moved with great haste away. It never ceased to amuse him how scared even the more stalwart defenders of the light, such as they were, were scared of him and his darkness. Smiling to himself, he traveled from where he was to the great hallway, then he turned and strode purposely towards the Hall of Audience.

When he arrived, the kingpriest looked at him, then beckoned everyone else to leave. Reluctantly they all left. He then beckoned the dark mage to approach. Hiding his sardonic smile within the cowl of his black robes, Fistandantilus approached the holy throne.

“I have need of your advice. Even your aid,” said Kurnos.

Fistandantilus decided to play coy. “What do you need me for,” he asked.

“Do not play games with me,” scowled Kurnos. “We both know that … that this … Harbinger is on the outskirts of Istar.”

“What of it?” the mage asked.

“He is a threat to me” replied Kurnos. “He threatens my rule. I would have to give up my position to him.”

“He is just a man,” began Fistandantilus.

“A man who came with several people and are gaining converts everywhere,” replied Kurnos, exasperated. “He has already turned many people, including glorious knights to his cause.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

Kurnos snarled. “I want you to deal with him.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I will destroy you,” threatened Kurnos.

Fistandantilus smiled, but his eyes behind his hood glittered. Nobody threatened him.

Kurnos was now a dead man whose death was not recorded.

Still, softness and calmness won the day. Besides, he could use Kurnos to test Ptalamir. With that in mind, he made a decision. He would undermine the strength of Kurnos and test Ptalamir at the same time. “I think you underestimate yourself and the forces at your command,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” Kurnos was suddenly wary.

“I mean you have an army, do you not?” soothed the Dark One. “If this Harbinger is whom he claims to be, then nothing I do would work. But you have to admit, he has only a small force. Your army is large. Use it. Let him prove he is whom he is.”

Kurnos frowned. “The commanders of the various units are not that friendly to me. Besnik and Amon, they are loyal, but the others are not. I especially mistrust Fraron.”

“But do you not have Fraron’s son as a hostage?” soothed Fistandantilus. “If that does not keep him loyal to you, nothing will.”

Kurnos sat back, thinking. “Yes, I do see your point. Perhaps I should stop panicking and start using what I got.” He jumped out of his chair and walked rapidly towards the entrance of the Hall. “Send me Besnik. I need to speak to him.”

“Make sure you send out Fraron,” advised the dark mage.

Kurnos turned. “Why?”

Fistandantilus shrugged. “The fate of battle. If he should fall….” He left the sentence incomplete to let Kurnos complete it in his own way.

Kurnos nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean.” He walked closer to Fistandantilus. “This is why I keep you by me. You are extremely useful to me.”

Fistandantilus smiled to himself. He would remain here for a while. This way, he could best test Ptalamir and start Kurnos towards his own destruction.

******

It was the fault of that revered daughter. If she had not come, he would still be safely ensconced in his self-made monastery.

The people around him were so varied, so numerous, so _different!_ It hurt him to think about it. Oh, it would be ok if they were all worshippers of the gods of good. He worshipped Paladine, but he could see the reasoning behind those who worshipped Mishikal. There was also Habbakuk, the lord of the sea, Mahere the harsh lord of belief and discipline, and Branchala, the lord of entertainment; they definitely had their place. But he could not see any real need for Shinare, the goddess of wealth and money. Kiri-Jolith the god of just battle, why have battle in any case? And Solinari … forget it!

The worst part for some of them were their duplicity. Kiri-Jolith, after all, had a counterpart in Sargonas the consort of Takhisis and the lord of honor and vengeance. He wondered if Kiri-Jolith was not Sargonas in disguise. By the same reasoning, Shinare could easily be Hiddukel, the prince of tarnished gold. And Solinari …

Why did Solinary so publically break from his father and join up with both Lunitari and Nuitari to form the magic arcane? It was not natural. Not natural at all. It was not the way of men, neither was it the way of the gods. It was something different, strange even. But magic users were prone to oppose their true lord as much as they were to serve them. The white robes, their lack of devotion towards one of the gods of light was revealing. And the black robes refused to serve Takhisis almost all the time. He, Ptalamir had nothing good to say about any of the gods of magic.

In fact, why was there evil in the first place? Why did Takhisis or the various gods of darkness exist? All they did was to spread evil.

Evil! Now there was something that he most definitely hated. The willful service towards the self was something he did not comprehend. One should exist to serve others, not oneself. He could understand almost none of the servants of evil.

Oh he could respect the dark clerics of Takhisis, their devotion towards their evil goddess and their willful devotion to her dictates, it was in some ways similar to what he did when he followed the dictates of Paladine, though on an evil level. They, at least, could claim to be serving the will of a god, an evil god true but still the will of a god. Men, elves, they were made to worship the gods in devotion and humility. Ogres, their devotion towards evil was heart rendering, he simply could not accept them. And those were the peoples created by the Gods.

Well, there were the beings created by Reorx, the Dwarves, the Gnomes and the Kender. But everyone knew that those three races did not belong.

Dwarves, well he could reluctantly accept them, their devotion towards Reorx was actually touching. Still, they were not part of the natural order, they preferred to live underground in great halls carved out of the stone. Not natural, not natural at all. Besides, they had some magic users; rare, it was true, but they had them.

But he could not understand gnomes at all, their ability to make anything was surpassed by…. Well, Paladine did teach he should be charitable. Still, it was hard to do so when gnomish ships were the terror of the seas. (The terror being that they were liable to explode, destroying the ship and everyone on board.) And it went downhill from there for all the other artifacts of gnomish ingenuity. (The most ingenious thing about gnomish ingenuity was that it even existed.) At least the gnomes understood many of the issues plaguing their creations and had set up committees to look into it. (Of course the committees were liable to solve problems that did not exist and ignore the problems they were set up to address. Just what this did for gnomish ingenuity he had no idea.)

As for Kender…. Well, the less said about them the better!

Throw in the minotaur, the creations of Kiri Jolith who had abandoned their god in order to worship Sargonnas, and well….

He just had no reason to accept any of the peoples other than elves and humans. And he had a hard time with his own people.

No, he had been happiest when he was by himself, worshipping Paladine and tending to his small garden. Unfortunately, it was apparent that Paladine had something else in mind for him.

It had been that revered daughter’s fault. She had stumbled into his “monastery” badly wounded and unable to heal herself. Of course, he had healed her, it was his duty after all, but she had acted strangely after that. Almost as if she had never seen healing. Which was ridiculous. After some pleasantries, she had gotten around to why she was here. She had been looking for this Harbinger. After realizing the importance of finding this individual, and ready to abandon his self-imposed isolation to aid her in her search, she had dropped a surprise on him.

“You can come with me, noble Harbinger.”

It took a little bit of time before he was convinced she was very serious. He, the Harbinger? He could not believe it. He did not want to believe it. But what if it were true? Would he not be doing right by accepting? Was it not his duty to accept? He decided that he could at least test it. If he was truly this Harbinger, then everything would align to put him onto the churchly throne. If not….

Well, he would die a traitor’s death. But at least he would know.

So here he was, leading forces against the kingpriest, whom many were calling an usurper. But what was surprising to him was how little fighting there was. It was as if Paladine was smiling on him for with the first town they had reached the entire town had joined him. The fact that he performed a few feats of simple healing seemed to work wonders.

Surprised, he had instructed the priests to start healing whenever they could. But there seemed to be a limit to what they could do. So, reluctantly, he continued to heal, though he reserved himself for the serious cases. And they moved on.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Iskar, word had spread. People, priests, men at arms were all joining. Even knights, adherents to that rigid military-religious system in Solamnia, were joining. It was so astonishing. So confusing. It was as if Paladine really was with him.

But the revered daughter, Sharias, had informed him that the real test had not yet come. She was plainly worried.

The reason for her worry came very soon. An army, the army of Istar, approached.

Ptalamir’s eyes grew wide. He knew he could not take on this force. What he had could not take it on. Oh, if he had only remained in his self-made monastery, everything would be nice and safe. Instead, he was here, vulnerable, all because he listened to a revered daughter.

“There are four forces,” said Sharias. “Damn, the main one is led by that fanatic Besnik. If the other three are like his….”

“Four?”

“One is behind Besnik’s.” Sharias looked hard at the other two visible forces. “I do not know who is leading the other two forces. We will just have to go with it and pray to Paladine and Kiri Jolith that we win.

“Long odds,” said a nearby soldier. “I will get the men ready.”

The revered daughter looked seriously at Ptalamir. “Best thing you can do is to keep the min in front of you healed. They will be the only thing between you and disaster. I will do what I can…”

“MEN! HALT!”

The enemy force stopped moving. For several minutes, the enemy simply stood there.

“I wonder what they are doing,” muttered the revered daughter.

As if in answer, the commander of the center force cried out. “Forces of heresy. I come before you from the kingpriest, blessed be he who serves Paladine. You are outnumbered and can only lose. But the kingpriest is merciful. Abandon your quest to replace him with the false Harbinger. Go home. Take up your honest lives again. You will be spared. Remain and be destroyed.”

A minute passed. Nobody left. Everyone stood pat. But everyone knew that a dreadful fight was in the offing, a fight against terrible odds.

“You have our answer, foul Besnik,” shouted Sharias. “We will all die before we give in to you and your treacherous usurper.”

“So be it!” shouted Besnik. “Fraron….”

“Fraron!” shouted Sharias. “Fraron! How can you support the usurper? Last I heard, you were opposed to him!”

From the opposite side came cruel laughter. “Fraron has a very good reason to support the kingpriest,” gloated Besnik. “Yes, a very good reason indeed. One that guarantees his most loyal cooperation.”

“Fraron! Please reply. What is it that the usurper has over you? What power doe he wield? Whatever it is, we can undo it!”

From both of the flanks came nothing but silence.

“Enough of this,” shouted Besnik. “Flanks! Advance!”

“Get ready!” shouted the soldier who was effectively leading Ptalamir’s forces.

“What is happening over there?” asked an astonished Sharias.

Well she should ask. The force to the left had started to advance. But the force to the right had wheeled and was now facing the central force. Soon, it was obvious that Besnik had noticed it too.

“Fraron, what are you doing?” came the angry shout. “I order you to advance your forces as I direct them.”

The reply from the right was to begin a rapid march, right towards the central force.

“Fraron, stop what you are doing!” demanded Besnik. “You know what will happen if you continue this. Stop it I say!”

From the right, Ptalamir heard a cry, a reply, one that was sorrowful enough to rip his heart out. But it was also one that was absolutely determined to do what it must. He knew when he heard it that he would honor and respect this voice for the rest of his life. _“I have other sons!”_

“Look to the left!”

The force to the left had also wheeled. But instead of aiming at them, they too were aiming at the central force led by Besnik. They too started to advance, as hard as they could.

“Their attack is deteriorating,” cried Sharias.

“Hold fast!” cried the unknown soldier. “Let them come to us.”

“Hillel. Advance and take out the traitors on the left!”

The crash of arms sounded the collision between the force on the right and the center force. The force on the left marching as fast as it could, soon attacked the center force as well.

“I don’t think the reserve force is moving?” exclaimed Sharias. “I think we can win this!”

“Paladine be praised, replied Ptalamir fervently.”

“Traitors!” cried Besnik. “I am surrounded by traitors. But I will do my duty. Force, advance! Bring me the head of the heretic!”

“Pikes!” came the cry from nearby. Ptalamir assumed it was the soldier who was commanding but he could not be sure.

The center force, a large portion of it, suddenly ran forward, straight towards him. In front, pikes were lowered to meet the charge. The thudding of the foots of the opposing army grew louder as their force rapidly neared.

“Remember. Focus on healing those you can,” repeated Sharias. “Keep the living alive!”

As the two lines met and the front ranks of Besnik’s soldiers ran upon and died on the pikes, Ptalamir heard the ugliest sound that humanity has ever made. Screaming, shouting, crying, the clash of steel on steel, the dull thud of bodies being pierced and soldiers dying, the sound that was the crash of two lines of soldiers meeting each other in mortal combat would remain in Ptalamir’s memory, giving him waking nightmares till the day he died. And maybe beyond.

Ptalamir was quaking in his sandals. Fear rose up to engulf him. Terrible, debilitating fear coursed threw him, trying to stop his movement, trying to force him to stare in fear and awful fascination at the terrible movement that kept coming closer and closer.

Somehow, some instinct got him moving, got him acting. He began to look for, not the dead, but the wounded. Heal them. That is what he had to do. There, a soldier was skewered by a sword. As the sword was pulled out, Ptalamir quickly muttered a prayer to Paladine. The dying soldier suddenly stood straight and thrust his own sword. It pierced the armor of his opponent, giving him a belly would that would kill him before an hour was gone.

There! Another was wounded. Another prayer muttered and another soldier who was standing in front of him revived and took out his would be killer.

But there were too many coming in. It would be just a matter of moments before they overwhelmed him. There was little he could do. Actually, there was a lot, but he did not know what to do.

Hands grabbed him from behind, pulling him back! Several soldiers, well armored and armed, rushed forward, charging into the thick of the fray, determined to do what they could. Ptalamir staggered but quickly regaining his feet, began to heal those who received wounds.

The charge seemed to blunt the attack, driving it back a bit. Ptalamir kept as many alive as long as he could. But they were still coming, there were too many! Too many!

“Foul traitor!” came a shout! “If I am to die, I will take you with me!

“Go to Takhisis, servant of the Usurper!” came a reply.

More clashing of swords and spears. But the attack that was racing to kill him was quickly thinning out. More soldiers were appearing from the sides, but these were taking out those that wanted to kill him.

“Besnik is dead!” came a cry! “Besnik is dead!”

And with that cry, the attack suddenly ended as most of the remaining soldiers threw down their weapons. Not all threw down their weapons. Some were determined to fight to the death, they were slaughtered. And some were skewered as they tried to surrender, the mood of the Harbinger was one of no quarter. But quickly the fighting ended.

Quickly Ptalamir healed those he could. Then, exhausted, he simply stood and stared at the carnage. The dead were numerous. Yes, there were those who were living, for the most part they stood still, weary and exhausted. Then, from a few throats around him rose a cheer!

“Harbinger! Harbinger! Harbinger!”

Recovering a bit of strength, he started to look around. And there, he saw her. The revered daughter who had brought him into this. She was laying on the ground, face up, a wound in her chest told her fate. Her face was open in a round o, her unseeing eyes wide with shock.

With more of the people cheering him, he quickly reached the corpse. Kneeling, he placed his hands on her corpse and breathed a prayer to Paladine. Then he waited.

Nothing happened.

Sadly Ptalamir stood and bowed his head in sorrow. Paladine had called Sharias to his side, he did not want her to return. Her time was over. He could not depend on her advice. He would have to make due himself.

He started to move forward as more of his defenders crowded around him, cheering. He was simply moving, trying to make sense of this horror, this catastrophe that men called battle.

“Where is the Harbinger?” came a shout. “I demand to see the Harbinger!”

The men around him turned towards the sound. Weapons were raised. These men were ready to defend him to the death.

“Bah!” exclaimed the voice. “As if I would kill him.”

“But you…,” started one soldier.

“If I wanted him dead, I would never have betrayed that foul Besnik!” came the reply. “I demand to see the Harbinger!”

Ptalamir realized that, for good or for ill, he was in command. He hated it, hated the battle, hated everything that had just happened. He deeply wanted to return to his monastery. But too much had occurred. He needed to press on. To do what he didn’t want to do. To depose the usurper. To become the kingpriest.

“Let him in,” he managed to utter.

With some reluctance, the crowd parted. Two soldiers marched towards him. Ptalamir’s face was locked on the bleeding arm of one. The soldier, noticing where his gaze was, scoffed. “Tis not a wound. Just a cut. I will live. Look for the wounded!”

Ptalamir almost starred at the soldier. If that was just a cut….

The soldier and his companion moved closer. “First battle?” the one asked.

Ptalamir nodded.

“Yea, it never leaves you,” replied the second. “But it seems you did well.”

What is your name?” asked Ptalamir to the first soldier.

“Fraron,” replied the first one. “You must be this harbinger everyone is talking about.” It was more a statement than a question.

Ptalamir wearily nodded. “I have to find the wounded.” Fraron nodded and the two soldiers stood aside.

“Ptalamir walked forward. Then he stopped. Raising his weary voice, he gave what would be his first command. “Everyone. Look around. Find the wounded. Bring me to them.”

As the men around him began to disperse in fulfilling the order, Ptalamir heard Fraron say something softly to himself. “Well, I am in for it now. I hope you are worth it Harbinger.”

Wearily, Ptalamir stopped. Turning his head slightly towards the sound, he replied, just loud enough for Fraron to hear it, “So do I.”

******

Fistandantilus smiled at what he saw through his scrying. He knew it would not be long before Kurnos learned of the disaster, the direct betrayal by two of his four companies, the non-intervention by the rear company. He knew that this harbinger had survived the battle and now had more followers than before.

_So this harbinger has more to him that it would seem,_ he thought to himself. _He managed to win his first battle. Quite amazing. But how dangerous is he towards my plans? Would I have to find a way to dispose of him?_

Fistandantilus looked at Kurnos. It was obvious to him that the kingpriest would order the death of Fraron’s son. He wondered if he should intervene in that deed. Then he decided against it. There would be no gain if he tried to intervene. Best to let things take their course.

As a serving lady brought a tray of food for the kingpriest, a soldier entered the hall. As he bowed, Kurnos spoke up. ”How went the battle, Amon.”

“I regret to inform you,” began the soldier.

“You regret?” snarled Kurnos.

“That the battle has been … lost!”

For several seconds, nobody moved. Not a sound was uttered.

“Lost?” the voice of Kurnos was strangled.

“Besnik was killed and his force was decimated. The leaders of two of the other three forces attacked him. The rearguard did nothing.”

Kurnos sat back in his throne, stunned. “Have someone execute Fraron’s son,” he finally said. Amon bowed and retreated.

Kurnos turned towards Fistandantilus and beckoned. The dark mage, smiling to himself, walked over to the throne. When he got close, he said, loud enough so all in the Hall could hear, “It seems that he is supported by your god, Paladine.” Kurnos scowled and the dark mage continued, “I would advise that you stop testing him and accept him as your heir.”

“No!” replied Kurnos. “We both know what happened the last time there was an heir. I will not have what happened to Symeon happen to me.” Then, collecting himself, he leaned towards the dark mage. “I want to use that spirit again.”

Fistandantilus muttered something. Then softly, he informed Kurnos, “The spirit is once again attached to the ring. Use it as you did before.” He then turned and walked away. He did not want to be near Kurnos when he did what he was about to do. While he walked away, he deliberately threw his arms towards the left, as if he was repudiating the kingpriest.

Angry, furious, thinking only of himself and his throne, Kurnos cast the spell releasing Sathira. He gave it instructions on what to do to the Harbinger. “Make sure the deed is quite bloody and violent, that nothing is left of that priest.” Sathira stared at Kurnos, its hatred great, taking in the command.

The serving lady who had witnessed everything, screamed.

As Sathira disappeared, Kurnos turned his attention towards the serving lady. He prepared to call down Paladine’s wrath on the lady. She had witnessed what he had done. This could not be allowed!

Fistandantilus realized the danger he was suddenly in. This serving lady was his witness, his defense. If she died, it would be his word against the kingpriests. All of his efforts would come crashing to the ground. He had to act.

Digging into his pouch for rose petals, he focused his attention on the serving lady. He sent a mental thought at her, one that could not be misinterpreted. It was just one word. _RUN!_ Then, as the lady started to turn, he turned his attention to Kurnos. At all costs, Kurnos could not be allowed to harm that lady. Quickly muttering a spell, he dropped the petals in the direction of the kingpriest.

Kurnos nodded. Then, realizing what was happening, he turned his attention from the serving lady towards Fistandantilus. He strove to cast his prayer against the powerful archmage. But Fistandantilus had been fighting powerful priests for centuries. He had helped lay low really powerful priests of Paladine, Gilean and Takhisis. Against him, Kurnos, a minor cleric by ability, was no challenge whatsoever. Kurnos’s eyes closed, his head drooped and his shoulders slumped as he fell into a deep sleep.

The dark mage smiled. It had been close. But he had skillfully made sure she heard him advise Kurnos to take this harbinger as his successor. He also had made sure he was out of the way when he cast the spell, bringing forth the fiend of the abyss. She saw Kurnos cast the spell. Almost certainly she had also seen him shake his arms in a gesture of repudiation. When she was questioned, she would make it sound as if Kurnos was able to do it all on his own and that he, Fistandantilus, was opposed to what had happened.

Kurnos would be out for a number of hours. But he did need to do one thing. Walking up to the kingpriest, he reached down and quickly removed the ring. Muttering a spell, he untied the fiend Sathira from the ring. Then, calmly returning to a corner in the room, he turned his attention back to this Harbinger. He needed to know what was happening.

******

The fiend from the abyss appeared in front of Ptalamir. Reaching out, he strove to grab the cleric in his terrible claws.

But hands grabbed him once again, thrusting him back. Soldiers maneuvered around him to stand between him and certain death. Weapons were drawn, they fought with all the courage they could muster.

But their efforts were worthless. The fiend’s claws sliced through them like a hot knife through butter. It looked hopeless.

Then one of the two soldiers who had defected stood in front of the fiend. Sword raised, shield held, solemnly speaking in Solamnic, he advanced. Ptalamir stared, this soldier … this knight of Solamnia, for he could be nothing else, was risking his life, even sacrificing himself, to protect him.

But there was only one thing he could do that would protect him. He had to banish the fiend. And if he was fast enough, he could protect the noble knight as well. Oh, he hoped he was quick enough. Lifting his head, he began to call upon Paladine to banish the fiend.

Unfortunately the fiend made short work of the knight. As the knight fell, he also uttered a prayer, an act so typical of the knighthood. But the knight had bought enough time for Ptalamir to finish his prayer. As the knight expired, the power of the prayer of banishment erupted on the fiend.

Sathira raged against the spell and strove to reach the cleric. But now it was as if its feet were moving through the thickest of mud, his arms striving through the thickest of oils. Slower and slower moved the deadly fiend. Ptalamir held his ground. He dared not move, to do so would be to break the power of the prayer. He held firm and concentrated on banishing the fiend.

With a loud bang, the fiend disappeared. The smell of brimstone erupted as Sathira was banished back to the Abyss where it belonged.

Wearied, Ptalamir strove forward. This knight had risked all to save him. Surely he should do what he could.

But the knight was dead. There was nothing he could do.

Or was there?

Realizing that he could do one thing, though it would exhaust him completely, he began a very serious prayer. Calling to Paladine, he asked the great god to restore the noble being to his body, to let him live again. For several minutes he prayed, sweat dripping down his face as he prayed like he had never prayed before. And, before he collapsed in complete exhaustion, his prayer was granted.

The dead knight sucked in a breath of air. Then another. Then another. As he continued to breathe, he weakly turned his head and looked at Ptalamir.

“You called me,” he calmly said. “You called me back.”

Weary, Ptalamir simply nodded.

“I saw Paladine,” the knight continued. “I was there, in front of him. It was wonderful. I was ready to take my place amongst his forces. But I felt his hand stop me. ‘It is not your time,’ he told me. ‘You have one more task to do before you can come to me.’”

The knight gazed at Ptalamir. “One more task. It is obvious that I must serve you. And I will.”

Ptalamir tried to shut the knight up, but he continued. “My honor is my life. On my honor, I will serve you to the best of my ability, till either one of us dies or one of us commits to unspeakable evil.”

Ptalamir bowed his head. He had no choice but to accept this offer. “What is your name, noble knight?” he asked.

“I am Sir Raymond, Knight of the Sword,” Raymond replied.

“Sir Raymond, I accept your offer.” Looking around, he then continued. “I also name you the commander of my forces. But you must rest and recover your strength before you assume your command. And I hope,” he said fervently, “that we never have another fight again.”

Raymond smiled. As he sank into sleep, some soldiers lifted him and put him on a makeshift stretcher.

“If I had not seen it with my own eyes,” came a statement of wonder. Turning, Ptalamir looked into the face of an astonished Fraron.

******

Fistandantilus broke off his scrying. He had finally gathered enough facts about this Harbinger to form an opinion of him. And this opinion led Fistandantilus to be very hopeful.

First, the man was a simple man, much like Denubis, but unlike Denubis he had tremendous power. The man simply did not want power. He much preferred a simple life. But he had reluctantly accepted power because he believed he was the Harbinger and was destined to lead the church.

Furthermore, he had a very simplistic view of the world, something the other clerics would never have. Even Denubis had a more sophisticated worldview than this Harbinger had.

Finally, this man had some very strong opinions. He despised many peoples, including dwarves and minotaur. He only accepted elves and humans, and even his own humankind he did not truly accept. True, he thought mages were abhorrent, which would mean he would never be completely comfortable around him, but nothing was perfect.

To put it mildly, he was a man who did not understand evil, the evil within him, was simple, had strong opinions and dreaded power along with its responsibility.

The result was that here was a man, scared of power, scared of all the races accept elves and humans, with a very simplistic worldview. The opportunities were endless.

Here might be the man who would unwittingly aid Fistandantilus in his bid for world power, the man who might, in his fear, tear everything he needed down around him. It was almost too good to be true.

He glanced over at Kurnos. The man was snoring softly. He could wait. The mage wanted to read up on the dragon gates, just in case. Then he considered. Best to play it safe. Walking back over to the kingpriest, Fistandantilus recast the sleep spell. The kingpriest descended into a deeper sleep. The mage smiled. When Kurnos awoke, he would be extremely well rested. But it would also be too late for him.

Taking his leave, he left for the Chancellery Library. It would not take too long to read up on the gate. He wondered what he would have to do or say to get past Denubis who was likely there.

******

Within two candlemarks most of Istar was loyal to the Harbinger. It was astonishing, really, how the people were so quickly swayed to support him. But it was actually understandable to most people. Kurnos was considered to be an usurper and this Harbinger was the solution given by Paladine. Led by Fraron, the steadfast soldier who was liked and admired by the city, all of the key points were quickly controlled. A few people put up a resistance but they were for the most part crushed. Ptalamir made it so that those who resisted out of fear of Kurnos were forgiven what they were doing, which helped to swell the forces opposed to the kingpriest.

It was in triumph that the army marched into the Great Temple. The clerics, refusing to a man to aid the kingpriest, lined up along the sides of the passageway. Some even bowed while the army marched in. Others bowed when Ptalamir passed them. A small contingent turned towards the living halls bearing a stretcher, the man in the stretcher they carefully deposited in a bed where several clerics swore they would take care of him.

Finally the triumphal procession reached the great Hall of Audience. There they saw the snoring Kurnos. Some were for killing him right then and there, but the officers, remembering the desire of Ptalamir, held them back. That said, the hands of the sleeping kingpriest were quickly bound.

As the force in the Hall began to debate what to do, Fistandantilus entered the great room, surprisingly right on the heals of Ptalamir. The Harbinger entered, wanting to end this situation as quickly as possible, but people had tried to lay hands on the Dark Mage and he was angry. Nobody had died, but there had been a few yelps of pain as people quickly drew back from trying to apprehend him. Some wondered what the dark one, one of the evilest of all people, wanted in the great temple devoted towards the light.

Ptalamir turned. This was not a confrontation he felt comfortable with. He wished he was anywhere. He wished he was in his monastery. He wished he was alone, just a regular cleric. Instead he was the Harbinger and he had to deal with this, the Dark Mage.

It was not something he wanted to do.

“What is the meaning of this?” growled Fistandantilus. “Why lay hands on me?” he demanded.

“You were serving the usurper!” someone cried out. A loud muttering, along with cries of “yes” and “get rid of him” emerged from the throats of many in the hall.

Timidly, Ptalamir walked forward and raised his hand. The muttering was silenced.

“Paladine teaches us that an accused needs to be heard, that they have the right to defend themselves,” he said. “We need to grant it to him.”

“Why should we?” one asked. “He is a black robe, they always lie,” said another. More muttering and statements came out, all generally hostile towards the Dark One.

Ptalamir would have given everything in order to simply agree with all the others. He wanted to find a room and escape into it. Finally, he hate the fact that the dark robed mage seemed to be observing him, measuring him by some standard only he understood. But he had a duty to follow, a principle imposed by Paladine. He was going to do his best to see it done.

Again he timidly raised his hand. Again the muttering gave out and died.

“I agree with you in my heart. I know that the Dark One is evil. I know that he has committed vile acts. What these acts are, I do not know, I just know he committed them.”

“But the word of Paladine is clear. We must give him his chance to defend himself. Otherwise,” he paused, inadvertently making a dramatic effect, “we serve Takhisis.”

“Is there anyone here who wishes to dispute with the Harbinger?” shouted Fraron. “If so, you will have to deal with my sword.”

Ptalamir lowered his head, raising his hands to it in weariness. “Please, Fraron. None of that,” he muttered.

But Fraron’s remark had the desired effect. The muttering stopped.

“Well, Dark One, did you aid the usurper?” demanded Fraron.

Fistandantilus paused a minute, playing up to the crowd. Then, not too quietly, he gave his statement. “I do not deny advising Kurnos.”

There was sudden muttering. “So you admit to aiding him,” demanded Fraron.

“I have only admitted to advising him,” rejoined Fistandantilus. “If that is aiding him, then I aided him. I trust,” he said glaring at everyone around him, “that there is nothing wrong with that.”

“But the army, the fiend,” someone started.

“Oh, I admit to advising him to send the army,” admitted Fistandantilus.

Now Ptalamir stared, shocked that he had gotten such a confession. “You admit that?” he asked incredulously.

“I admit I had my doubts about you,” replied Fistandantilus. “Yes, I advised Kurnos to send the army. In my mind, if you were of the gods then you would be victorious. And if not, you would be dead.” Fistandantilus paused and turned around. It seemed to everyone that he took the time, staring into the hearts of everyone. “We all know the results of that battle,” he concluded.

“But the fiend,” someone else cried out. Some shouts erupted in agreement, demanding that the mage answer the charge.

Tiredly, Ptalamir raised his hands. And Fraron, following Ptalamir’s lead, shouted, “Let the mage speak!”

As the muttering subsided, Fistandantilus gave an answer that was startling to everyone there. “I did not send that fiend. Kurnos did.”

Now the outcry was loud. It lasted for at least a minute before Fraron and Ptalamir could quiet everyone. Then, Fraron gave the words of shock that was on everyone’s mind. “A priest of Paladine? You must be lying!”

“It was not me who sent that fiend,” replied the Dark One.

The muttering rose again. With some difficulty, Ptalamir quieted it. “You say something that is impossible,” he stated. “But if it is true and he did send it, you must have been behind it.”

“I assure you, I advised against it,” replied Fistandantilus.

“But the fiend,” began Ptalamir.

“I was walking away from the kingpriest when he cast the spell.”

Now Ptalamir was confused, as was everyone else. “But if you did not cast the spell,” he began.

“I advised him to accept you into the temple, to make you his heir,” rejoined Fistandantilus. “You had, after all, won the fight. What reason would there be to doubt you?” he asked rhetorically.

“But the fiend,” began someone.

“He insisted on it!” roared Fistandantilus. “He was the one who wanted to send the fiend. He was the one who cast the spell.” Fistandantilus turned and looked at Kurnos. Quickly and quietly muttering a fast spell, he sent the kingpriest back into the depths of slumber. “Not me!” he then concluded.

Everyone was muttering in confusion. A priest of Paladine casting a spell that summoned a fiend of the Abyss? It was unheard of. It was impossible. Yet it so agreed with Kurnos being the usurper of the throne. A priest who fell into darkness….

As the muttering faded, Ptalamir asked the obvious question. “Do you have anyone who can vouch for you in this?” he asked.

Fistandantilus paused. Then, he sighed. “No, I do not,” he said. Then, he paused as if he was thinking. “Wait!” he finally said. “I remember, there was a serving woman in the room when Kurnos summoned the fiend. Perhaps if you find her….”

“I am here” came a feminine voice from the doorway.

Quietly the crowd parted and the voice came into view. It was a serving lady, the same one who had been in the Hall of Audience earlier. She walked forward, head bowed, almost as if she was ashamed of herself. Ashamed, or frightened.

Gently Ptalamir intercepted the young woman, giving her what comfort he could. “Peace, my lady. You have nothing to fear. Simply tell us all the truth and all will be well with you.”

The woman nodded her head. Then she walked forward a little bit more. Stopping, she started to speak. “He…. He…. He was…. He sum….” As she tried to get the words out, she pointed.

At Kurnos, not at Fistandantilus.

It was obvious she was frightened. But she was trying to get the words out, trying to say what it was she had seen.

“It was the kingpriest who summoned the fiend?” asked Fraron, taking pity on the poor woman.

The woman nodded.

“And what of the Dark One,” someone asked.

The woman looked at the mage, fear mingled with terror. She raised her hand. “He...” she started, then stopped, confused.

“He aided him,” accused someone. There was a small roar as people shouted agreement with the one who stated such an obvious truth.

It was with some difficulty that Fraron got the crowd to quiet. But he only did because of the astonished expression on Ptalamir. And Ptalamir was flabbergast. He, and only he, had heard the woman say, “No, he didn’t.”

As the crowd quieted, Ptalamir asked, “Would you repeat what you just said.”

“He … didn’t,” said the woman. “He was over there,” she raised her hand, pointing. Then, she considered. “No, he was not there. He was walking there. He had….” Now it was she who was so astonished she could hardly speak.

The room was deathly quiet. One could hear a pin drop.

Slowly her head turned towards the Dark Mage. Her eyes wide with astonishment and fear, she said in a soft voice, “I remember. You were walking away. You had … you had made some gesture…. Of negation.” She paused, then her eyes widened even more. “You were repudiating him,” she said.

Fistandantilus smiled inwardly. His tactic had worked, she had seen the gesture and had interpreted it as he had wanted her to.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why would I not?” asked Fistandantilus.

“Because you wear the dark robes,” answered Fraron. “Because you have extended your life beyond normal by some unholy means.”

“Yes, I have,” answered Fistandantilus. “And do. Which is why I wear the black robes,” he continued, louder. “No, you do not want to know how I do it. Leave it at that.”

“But do know that I have served good in the past and doubtless will do so in the future.”

“Likely unwillingly,” said someone. Fistandantilus recognized the speaker as the elf priest Quarath.

“Oh, I was willing enough,” he countered.

Quarath looked at Fistandantilus, disbelief in his eyes. “Only one I know of is when you aided Vinus Solamnus and I seriously doubt you willingly aided him.”

Fistandantilus smiled. “Let us say we aided each other,” he replied.

“You aided Vinus Solamnus?” asked someone incredulously. Fistandantilus chose not to answer it, letting his silence speak for him.

“But why?” asked Ptalamir.

Fistandantilus shrugged. “I had my reasons,” he answered vagely.

Ptalamir looked at the dark mage. He looked at the kingpriest. He looked at the dark mage. He then shrugged. Quickly he ordered the kingpriest taken to the dungeon and a guard placed to make sure nobody could get to him. This was done.

Then, as the crowd began to dissipate, Ptalamir dared to ask the one question he had been holding back. “Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to advise the church.” Before Ptalamir could object, Fistandantilus continued. “I offered my services to Kurnos and to Symeon, his predecessor. My knowledge of the world is vast and my expertise is deep. You would do well to listen to me. I can aid you greatly.”

Ptalamir stood there, wavering. There was a part of him that wanted to accept, a part that wanted to take the easy way. There was also a part that wanted to reject, it too wanted the easy way. It was a most difficult decision, one that he was not equipped to make. “I will think about it,” he ended up muttering, before he walked away.

The last to leave was Fraron. He looked at the dark mage, looked at where the Harbinger had gone, shook his head and marched out.

Fistandantilus smiled. Everything had gone well enough. Oh, it was not perfect, nothing was perfect, but he had an excellent chance of achieving his first goal. And after that, he could work on the rest of it.

The destruction of the priesthood.

The destruction of the Istar Empire.

His control over the entire world.

But he had to do one thing to ensure his gain was solid. There was one weakness in all of this. He could not deal with Kurnos yet, but tonight he would have to.

Several candlemarks later, Fistandantilus was climbing down the stairs towards the dungeon. He had a very important appointment with a certain kingpriest and he was not going to be late. Kurnos was in the most heavily guarded cell there was. Alive, the … retired … kingpriest was a danger. He could let others know what he had done, who had helped him. Oh yes, this was a very important appointment. Too bad for Kurnos he did not know he had an appointment with the Dark One.

The Dark One paused. On the other side of the door were two guards. Beyond the guards was the prisoner. Of course, they were refusing to listen to anything the prisoner was saying, but there was always the chance. Complications upon complications. Oh well, it was not as if Istar was built in a day.

Closing his eyes, he took out a pinch of sand and, saying the words, allowed the sand to dribble out. He was quite satisfied when he heard both guards drop. Opening the door, he had the satisfaction of seeing both of them fast asleep.

“YOU!”

Irritated, Fistandantilus looked up. There in the cell was Kurnos. Madness was upon him, he was dribbling spittle, his muscles were bulging with the effort of trying to break out of his prison. But it was hopeless. The cell was too strong.

“You! You! You!” Kurnos kept repeating.

Fistandantilus folded his arms and leaned against the bars of a cell opposite where Kurnos was contained. Calmly he contemplated the prisoner as he ranted and raged against him. Finally, Kurnos had exhausted himself and, wearily, stopped his efforts.

“Yes, Kurnos. It is I,” he finally admitted.

Kurnos was breathing hard. He was exhausted but his anger continued to fuel him. “I … will ….”

Fistandantilus gave a small smile. “Yes, Kurnos? You will do what?” he teased.

“I … will … let them all know what you did,” Kurnos finally got out. “It will be the end of you. You will be ruined.”

“It will?” asked Fistandantilus pleasantly, as if he were asking about nothing more serious than the weather.

“Yes!” replied Kurnos. “When they know, they will act. They will get mages after you. They will get clerics after you. You might be able to stand against a couple, but against the combined might of a number of mages of your Solinari and clerics of Paladine, you have not got a hope of a chance.”

Kurnos looked proud as he said it. He was quite mad, of course, but he was willing to believe anything that would let him off the hook. Too bad for him, the hook had already sank deeper than it was possible to remove.

Fistandantilus lowered his hood and Kurnos blanched. Well he should. The face of Fistandantilus was a mask of evil. Ambition was blatant in his jaw which was emphasized by his short, straight dark grey beard. His lip, curled in cynical amusement, were thin and fleshless. Wrinkles in his face twisted into both wisdom and cunning. But it was his eyes that commanded the fear of Kurnos. Hooded and commanding, the dark eyes were cold, desolate, indifferent, contemptuous and deadly. The face of Fistandantilus was a face that displayed pure evil and selfish ambition, a face that considered all else to be tools for his ambition. Few could look upon it without terror gripping their hearts.

Fistandantilus’s smile grew. In fact, it turned into a grin. A bloodthirsty grin. Kurnos started to realize that it was too late for him.

“Oh, I think not,” answered the Dark One.

“After all, it was not me who cast the spell that brought the fiend from the abyss. It was you. And you cast it twice. Fistandantilus grinned. “Quite willingly too,” he observed.

“You gave me the fiend,” countered Kurnos, trying to regain what courage he had.

“But I did not use it,” replied Fistandantilus. “That was all you. Your choices, your decisions, your desires.” He paused, regarding the doomed kingpriest with an amused expression. “I must say, it is quite rare when a cleric of Paladine chooses to serve Takhisis.

“You were actually fun to serve. You turned towards evil quite readily. You gave the church of Paladine a bad name. You killed and murdered and hurt many. A great number.”

“You were quite enjoyable and you were an improvement for me over Symeon. But alas, all good things come to an end. Your use to me is over.”

Fistandantilus looked at Kurnos with a wicked smile. He allowed himself the smile. He was so enjoying what was happening.

In the cell, Kurnos wimpered.

“Goodbye, Kurnos,” concluded Fistandantilus. “Goodbye, usurper.”

Pushing himself off the bar, Fistandantilus stood erect and looked down the hall of cells. Lifting both his hands, he began to intone words of magic. At the end, he spoke words in common.

“Sathira! Come to me! Do my bidding as I say!”

Slowly the darkness grew in front of him. Then it coalesced into the fiend from the Abyss that Kurnos had once used to kill Symeon and had used to try to kill Ptalamir.

Sathira said nothing but the hatred in his eyes was everything. He was furious. He wanted to kill, wanted to destroy, wanted to lay waste to this upstart in front of him. But he was constrained by a power that was too great to resist.

Smiling, Fistandantilus pointed at Kurnos. Kurnos retreated to the back of the cell, but he could not do a thing except plant his hands on the wall in terror, waiting for the end. “Sathira, you know Kurnos. I give him to you. Kill him. But take your time. Do not mark the surface of his body. But do as you wish inside his body. Once he is dead, return to the Abyss, your job here done.”

Slowly the head of Sathira turned till he was looking right at Kurnos. The mouth opened and from the throat came a gurgle of pleasure. He started to walk towards the cell where Kurnos was. When he reached the bars, he simply walked right through them.

Kurnos screamed.

Fistandantilus laughed. He laughed so hard his side was aching. He laughed as Sathira reached Kurnos. The screams were so pleasing to the Dark One he laughed even harder. Sathira was a master of his craft, he could keep a victim alive for a while. And Kurnos felt every prick, every jab, every moment of agony while he slowly died. But not once was any mark left on his body. Fistandantilus, amused, could not stop laughing.

Then, when Kurnos finally died and Sathira disappeared, Fistandantilus gained control of himself. He cast a quick spell that cleaned up the cell. It was as if Kurnos had simply died on his own.

Then raising his hood back to where he normally wore it, he returned to the two guards, muttered a spell over both of them then left. When they awakened, they would not know what had happened. Their memories had been altered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really starting to break away from cannon here. Not that I will break completely, there will be some parallels. Divergences will grow as the story continues.
> 
> In this section, it was most important to me to show two things about the archmage. First, I needed to show him deceiving without lying. This is, of course, very tricky and I had to rewrite several parts to make it right. When he is being questioned towards the end, everything he says is true. It is what is implied that is the lie, that deceives. The dark one, having lived so long, would be a master at it.
> 
> I also wanted to display his evil in an in-your-face way. It is hard to realize that the person next to you can be the vilest of people. Truly evil people can make their evil sound so reasonable, so perfectly sane. Fistandantilus is like this. He seems so reasonable, so calm, so nice. You have to look right into his eyes to know how dead to humanity he is, which is one reason he keeps his hood up all the time. But I wanted to show the the man under the hood. Killing the treacherous kingpriest allowed me to do this, in a particularly satisfying way.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I am currently working on some other chapters and they are not coming as easily as these first four did. But I will persevere. Do let me know what you think so far.


	5. Fistandantilus Schemes and Considers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to look very good for the plans of the Dark One.

The situation had improved for Fistandantilus. He had managed to get rid of the increasingly erratic and dangerous Kurnos. The new kingpriest, this Harbinger, Ptalamir, had reluctantly accepted him as an advisor though mainly because he knew so much about the world. He did not trust him because, well because he wore the black robes, but that was nothing new. Things were looking up for him.

But there were already some undercurrents that were troubling. Ptalamir was afraid of him. Very afraid. Oh, this was not like the fear Denubis exhibited. Denubis was afraid of him, obviously so, but he could still control himself. Ptalamir would often be quaking in his boots.

It was actually surprising that Ptalamir had showed any courage when he was leading that army of his. But then, when he later had a chance to reflect, it wasn’t really his army. He was just the official leader of it, it was others who were propelling him and actually led it. Towards the end he had become the leader, but then he was simply riding the adulation and desires of all the others, swept up by them. Besides, he seemed to collect himself when he thought he was doing Paladine’s work, then he could be very steadfast.

He wondered if that prophecy he had read was really fulfilled with Ptalamir. There were others he would have thought would have made better candidates for the role of Harbinger. Not that he would want them, of course. It was to his advantage that a false Harbinger be on the throne. It gave him so many possibilities. But with this one, there were difficulties. His very goodness prevented him from considering certain things.

He also wondered if he would be able to truly give Ptalamir the advice he wanted to give. It would be so nice if he was able to advise him in such a way that he gained somewhat during his life. Even better if he found a way to gain all. But it seemed quite hopeless.

But something else had caused him to propel himself towards the Hall of Audience. It was something he had heard. It was something so astonishing that it had to be false. Yet it fit what he knew of the new kingpriest.

He had heard that Ptalamir was planning on turning against the conclave. And for the life of him, he could not imagine anyone doing that.

It was not that the question was of importance to him. Truth be told, Fistandantilus did not care for the conclave. If he felt he could get away with it, he would have dispensed with the conclave of mages and become the only mage in the world. Unfortunately, trying to dispense with the conclave would mark him as a renegade, this would result in him battling every mage in all of Ansalon and while he felt he could win such a fight, it would be so tedious and involve such a waste of energy.

Besides, Nuitari would oppose such an act.

Still, it could happen. He needed to find out, if only to prepare.

He moved towards the closed doors and simply shoved everyone there aside. Seeing the door being closed, he cast a minor spell that opened the door. But he made sure that nobody could follow him. As he walked in, he closed the doors behind him, locking them.

There! Ptalamir was sitting on the kingpriest’s throne, almost certainly getting ready for the audience that happened. All preparations halted, though, as Fistandantilus marched towards the throne, his shoes clacking on the hard, polished floor. Distaining to perform the customary bow, he had immediately asked the question that had spurred him in.

“Is it true that you are looking for a way to get rid of mages?”

The question was actually a good one. It probed the Kingpriest and elevated his standing with the conclave.

“You do not need to bother the kingpriest with such minute details,” came a voice off to the side.

Looking towards the voice, he noticed Quareth was once again by the throne. He was not too surprised, the elf was something of a toady and seemed to exist only to serve whomever was on the throne. When Symeon had been the kingpriest the elf had been by his side. When Kurnos had been the Kingpriest….

Come to think about it, Quareth had not been by the side of Kurnos. Maybe there was a bit more to this elf than he realized. Fistandantilus resolved to keep an eye on the elf.

“It is a legitimate question,” responded Fistandantilus. “The conclave of mages would need to know if the church is going to be opposing them.”

“You still do not need to challenge the kingpriest,” replied Quareth. “He has much more important things to do than to answer your question.”

The mage toyed with the idea of slaying Quareth right then and there. With regret, he shelved the idea. It would likely destroy all the effort he had put into gaining influence in the Church. He would have to be circumspect and simply ignore the elf.

Looking back at the Kingpriest, Fistandantilus bowed slightly. “Contrary to the claim of your toady,” he began.

“I am not,” exclaimed a suddenly outraged elf.

“…the question I asked….”

“Bothering the kingpriest!”

“…is of critical concern.”

“Not to you mages, it is not,”

“I will h-hear him out,” came a somewhat stuttered reply. Quareth looked at the kingpriest, then bowed low and retreated. Ptalamir then raised a shaky hand and beckoned the mage to approach the throne, an act that seemed to shock many of the people there. The kingpriest was definitely nervous. His fear was quite apparent. But he still struggled to sit still as the evilest man in history came near him.

When the mage was just a few feet away, Ptalamir spoke. “If y-you promise to aid me when I c-call upon you, I will t-tell you,” he stated.

Fistandantilus thought about it. Then he nodded.

“R-remember! You promised.” The Kingpriest gathered his thoughts. “I think you know how unnatural your order is. Magic is simply not part of the world. It is an addition, a flawed addition. It is not of the gods. Neither is it of men,” he finished.

Fistandantilus bowed his head slightly. “You have said that before,” he replied.

“Yes, yes,” said the kingpriest. “It should be obvious to you that I do intend to do something about it.”

Now this was news indeed. The church moving against the conclave. He filed it away for future consideration. Then he decided to simply pretend he had his doubts. Which, actually, was not pretense, he did have his doubts.

“But what can you do?” he asked.

Ptalamir leaned forward. “There is much I can do,” he replied. “I have the power of the gods behind me.”

Fistandantilus smiled, though because his hood was up Ptalamir did not see it. “You would have to destroy the five towers, my lord, and that will be most difficult for you to do,” he replied.

“We have the power of Paladine,” responded the Kingpriest. “He will aid us.”

“And do you think that we wizards have no gods?” rejoined Fistandantilus quite deliberately. “We are the followers of the three, Solinari, Lunitari and Nuitari.”

“The children of the three prime,” observed Ptalamir. “If you are advising me, why are you making it sound as if I cannot succeed when Paladine supports me?”

Fistandantilus bowed his head. “It is important for you to know what you are going to be up against.”

Ptalamir considered, then reluctantly nodded. “I suppose that is true,” he admitted. “Tell me what I will be up against.”

“To get to the towers you need to get past the five guardian woods. That will not be easy,” responded the dark one. “The gods themselves had a hand in the creation of the five woods. Solinari was directly responsible for the creation of the Nykia Grove around the tower of Daltigoth and the Guardian Forest around the tower of Wayreth. It will be difficult for you to attack the Daltigoth tower when all your forces simply fall asleep while in the grove. And the forest around Wayreth allows the wizards to simply displace the tower in both location and time.”

Ptalamir nodded his head. “Those would be difficult to overcome,” he admitted, his fear returning. “What else?”

“There are the woods of Lunitari. The Chengdu Wood surrounds the tower of Losarcum. Enter that wood and your emotions will intensify beyond control. If people go in with a rage, they will find an outlet for that rage, they will attack their neighbors. If one is left standing it would be a miracle. If they go in with sorrow, it will intensify to abject despair. Joy becomes euphoria. And do not talk about the Lethe Grove that surround the tower of Istar. Just enter the grove and you forget everything. And I do mean, everything. And finally, there is the Shoikan Grove, the creation of Nuitari, around the tower of Palanthas. If one is able to make it across that accursed grove without their mind breaking in cold terror and absolute fear, dragged down into a huddled mass of terror and agony, laying down in such abject horror which freezes them so much they rot and die of starvation,, I know it not.”

Ptalamir considered what was said. “I had not imagined that such unnatural woods existed. They are definitely not the way of the gods.”

“Even though the gods made them?” asked Fistandantilus quietly.

Ptalamir paused. After a minute, he started in. “They are still not the way of the gods. But we must consider what you have told us.” He paused, then looked right at the mage. In looking, he only saw the jaw with the trimmed grey beard and the mouth, the eyes were covered in darkness, otherwise he would be much more afraid of the mage than he was. “Thank you.”

Fistandantilus bowed, then turned and left, passing the people waiting outside the door. While he was moving, he paused to take a look at what was being done.

The hallway near the Hall of Audience was being converted into some sort of anti-chamber. Already the workmen had for the most part expanded the hallways outward and the walls had been built. Fistandantilus was no master of construction but it did seem to him that this work was well done. Work was being done to raise the ceiling to the roof, allowing light in to brighten the room.

It might be worth saving when he took over. It certainly would make a beautiful approach to his throne room.

Artists had already started painting a mural on the walls. Supposedly it would depict every god in the pantheon.

_And someday it can display me as well._

Argh!

He quickly found the artists who were painting Paladine. He had to admit the painting was pretty good, a fair representation of the god. And over there, Gilean, in his flowing red robes carrying his book. Both were relatively accurate, though Paladin was somewhat larger. But then, that was due to him being in his dragon form.

He looked around, wondering who was working on Takhisis. Then he found one, sketching out the cartoon that would guide the painters.

Fistandantilus had a moment when he was as human as anyone else. His jaw literally dropped open.

No way! They wouldn’t!

They were!

Takhisis was being drawn in her five headed dragon glory. But the cartoon was of a dragon so small it would seem to be nothing more than a pet of Paladine.

What a joke!

When he took over, he would have to fix it, enlarging Takhisis and making Paladine smaller. Have to appease the Dark Queen after all.

_Or simply become a god and deal with her._

Fistandantilus gave himself a facepalm. That thought simply refused to go away.

Quickly Fistandantilus went to his room in the Temple. A gift, sort of, of Ptalamir, it allowed him to remain close to the scene of the action. It was in an unused section of the temple, which certainly helped, and he had made it into a sort of a home. Unfortunately, it did not do much for him. It was too public, too obvious. He could not do much work there.

He much preferred the towers. There, in several of the towers, most notably Wayreth and Palanthas, he has wormed his way into the rock, creating his own hideaways and laboratories, where he could perform his experiments with life and death. Right now he regretted not having done so with the tower of Istar, but even he had to admit that early on there was no evidence that Istar would become the center of civilization it became. Everything revolved around Palanthas in those earlier days, and Wayreth was, of course, Wayreth. So he had only himself to blame.

There were times he seriously wished he could travel forward in time. But the _Span Land and Time_ spell did not send anyone to the future. It only worked to send someone to the past or return them to the present. There was very little he could do about that.

Complications upon complications. Oh well, if he was to be here, he would have to find a way to create a workspace here in Istar. He briefly contemplated burrowing under the tower of Istar, then he rejected it.

Then he stopped and stared as he realized what he was rejecting.

Burrow under the temple!

Fistandantilus was completely slackjawed. It was such a simple, obvious and elegant solution. It solved everything. He would not need to burrow under the tower, so he would not need to hide it from the mages. And he would not have to leave Istar or go anywhere, he could remain here on site.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. It would not take him too long to do it, he would be able to use more powerful spells than he would if it were being done in one of the towers. Once done, he would be able to port himself into his laboratory with minimal difficulty, or even walk down to it should he choose to do so. And nobody would know.

He resolved to rest up, all to allow his power to build up to the point where he could cast the spells with minimal effort. He wanted to be in the fullness of his power before he cast them.

Though, really, he could make the door right now with the power he had. Quickly looking around, he found a place in a nearby room that he could use as a doorway. One minor spell later, the door was there, hidden from ordinary views like one of the great dwarven doors yet apparent to those who could find it. Too bad it opened up to solid rock, but that was to be expected. This was only the beginning.

p>He resolved to rest up, all to allow his power to build up to the point where he could cast the spells with minimal effort. He wanted to be in the fullness of his power before he cast them.

Though, really, he could make the door right now with the power he had. Quickly looking around, he found a place in a nearby room that he could use as a doorway. One minor spell later, the door was there, hidden from ordinary views like one of the great dwarven doors yet apparent to those who could find it. Too bad it opened up to solid rock, but that was to be expected. This was only the beginning.

Several weeks later, Fistandantilus was walking down the corridors when he heard something.

“So, who do you think will be selected?” asked one voice.

Fistandantilus stopped. It was coming from around the corner so the speakers did not know he was nearby. It was probably just a minor conversation but he resolved to listen just in case. If it was minor, he could always resume walking and, turning the corner, discomfort the speakers, something he enjoyed doing, though he would never admit it.

“I don’t know,” responded another. “It could be anyone.”

“Why don’t you go for it Loralon?” asked a third voice.

Loralon! This made the conversation serious indeed. Loralon was one of the people Fistandantilus feared. A devout elf dedicated towards goodness, Loralon was highly suspicious of the dark one. But he was considered to be one of the most important clerics in all the land. If people were urging him to assume something, almost certainly it was serious indeed.

“I prefer not to,” replied Loralon.

“Why not?” asked a voice. “You would do a great job.”

“I suppose I would,” replied Loralon. “But you know how much I dislike politics.”

“But you understand politics,” replied one of the voices. “You know the kingpriest has an intense dislike of politics.”

“I really cannot blame him,” responded Loralon.

“Neither can I,” said the voice. “I would much prefer spending my time in prayer and doing good deeds. But we both know how important politics is.”

“We need you,” said another voice.

There was a pause. “I suppose so, but only if nobody else who wants the post tries for it,” acknowledged Loralon.

“Like Quareth?” asked a voice.

“Is Quareth looking to assume the position?” asked Loralon sharply.

“I do not know,” admitted the voice. “But I do know that he is ambitious. He likely would try for the post.”

“I must admit, I look at Quareth and I wonder,” said another voice. “He seems too ambitious to me. Always fawning with the current kingpriest.”

“He did not fawn with the predecessor,” said a third voice.

“That is true,” admitted the first voice. “He does seem to have something about him.”

“He is not a dark elf,” said the third voice. “I suppose he would do a good job if necessary.”

“I do not question his motive,” said the second voice. “But I still mistrust him. He is too ambitious.”

“He is ambitious, I admit,” stated Loralon. “But he is not a dark elf.” There was a pause and Fistandantilus heard someone sigh. “But you are right Philosalon, he might make the wrong decision because of his ambition. I suppose if he tries for the position, I will have to try for it too.”

“Now you are talking,” said one of the voices. “I think you should go for it right away.”

“We will see,” concluded Loralon.

Fistandantilus immediately cast an invisibility spell on himself, knowing that this was a conversation he should not have heard. Just in time too, as a group of priests turned the corner. He recognized Loralon, the two were not exactly friendly with each other. Fortunately the group turned the other direction.

Fistandantilus decided it was best to return to his room. Back in his room, he sat and thought about the conversation he had heard.

A post had opened up and quite recently too. But what the post was, he had no idea. He knew of nobody who had died or retired in the temple. It therefore had to be a new position, but most new positions were actually minor positions. Sometimes there would be somewhat important positions that would open up, but these would be temporary positions. But Fistandantilus did not think it would be a temporary one, the conversation between Loralon and the others indicated that this position would be an important one. But he had heard nothing about it.

It was certainly confusing. So, what to do?

He recalled something that was said, that Quareth might be looking to assume the same position. That left open a way by which he could learn about it, if he was careful.

But where was Quareth? If he was by the kingpriest, he would have no chance of talking to him, the last thing he wanted was for Ptalamir to hear him. But no, he would not be by the kingpriest, not at this time. He thought.

With a start, the dark mage realized he knew less about Quareth than he needed to. He would have to fix that issue, immediately.

Whom to go to, that was the question. One by one, he considered the various people he knew and discarded them, until he reached one. Denubis. He was a simple man, but a very good one. If he could break through his reserve, he just might find him a font of information. Or maybe not. One could not know how much the two were connected to each other. Still, it was worth a try.

He thought about it for a while, then walked slowly towards the chancellery library. He expected Denubis to be there, though if he wasn’t he would simply have to wait.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait. Denubis was sitting there, going over one of the disks, writing what he found on them into Solamnic like he always did. He watched him writing for about a minute or two. Then, he cleared his throat.

Denubis looked up. “Oh my,” he exclaimed, “you startled me!”

“I do apologize for that,” replied Fistandantilus. “It was not my intention to startle you.”

Denubis shuddered. “I do apologize, Dark One,” he said.

Fistandantilus smiled, though it was doubtful that Denubis saw the smile. “There is no need to apologize.” He paused a minute, then said, “I would like to speak to you.”

Denubis’s eyes opened wide and he shuddered, harder this time. “If that is your wish,” he said.

Fistandantilus frowned a bit to himself. This would not do at all. The priest was too scared, too frightened. He would never provide the information that he needed. He needed to alleviate the priest’s fears, otherwise he might not give him as much information as he could.

“Why do you shudder when you see me?” he calmly asked. “Do I frighten you?”

Denubis looked down. “It is not what you have done to me, Dark One,” he answered. “It is what you are.”

“What I am?” asked Fistandantilus.

“Yes, Dark One,” replied the priest. “You are probably … the evilest … living person there is.”

Fistandantilus simply looked at the priest while he struggled with words he did not want to say. “Go on.”

For a minute, it seemed to the mage that Denubis would not say any more. His eyes stared at the mage and his mouth slowly opened and closed, as if starting then stopping what he wanted to say. Finally, he seemed to throw all caution to the wind. “You are … human,” he started. As Fistandantilus nodded, Denubis continued on. “Yet you are so old, older than most elves. You use your dark magic to extend your life beyond anything that people could understand.”

“And for that reason I wear the black robes,” interrupted Fistandantilus. “And yes, the extension of my life is vile indeed. But I find it worthwhile,” he concluded.

“Yes, you find it worthwhile,” replied Denubis. “But you continue to do it.”

“I find it beneficial to me,” explained the dark one. “You might too, if you decided to do it as well.”

Denubis shuddered at that. “Thank you but no,” he answered.

“Whatever is right for you,” Fistandantilus shrugged. “But do know that this is not the only thing I use my magic for.”

Denubis looked down. “Other things you do that are vile,” he whispered.

“Denubis, please!” Fistandantilus managed to make it sound like he was affronted. “Did I not aid you by standing guard over the disks and the library that time? If I wished you ill, would I have not kept my word to you?”

Denubis shook his head, then he wearily looked up at the mage. Fistandantilus looked into his eyes and read what was there: Doubt, despair, sorrow and mistrust. It was to be expected, but it still rankled that he could not gain more acceptance amongst the priesthood, this hurt his plans.

Fistandantilus sighed. In fact, he made it a bit louder than he normally would. “I see that you still mistrust me, Denubis,” he said, sounding sorrowful. “I suppose it is only to be expected. I hope,” he continued, “that we can still work together occasionally.”

Denubis looked down, clearly itching to resume his translation work. “I do not see what we could do together,” he replied lamely.

“It is hard to say what we could do,” the mage freely admitted, “but the occasion may come up and I do hope that when it does, we can work together.”

Denubis shook his head, clearly doubting that they could ever work together.

“Still,” Fistandantilus pressed on, “you could perhaps clear up a confusion that is dismaying my mind.”

Denubis looked up, a bit more curious than before.

“I have heard that a position has opened up, a position that Quareth wants to assume. But I know of no….”

“Quareth wants to become the Head of the B-Bretheren?” stammered Denubis.

Head of the Brethren! This was astonishing news. The last Head of the Brethren had died centuries ago. It was an old position, equivalent in many ways to that of the Seneschal in kingdoms. But unlike the Seneschal, the Head of the Brethren could make decisions that affected the entire priesthood. So long as the kingpriest did not contradict him or issue an overriding order, the decisions of the head was firm.

He would have to think about this, consider this astonishing news.

“Understand, Denubis, I only heard that he wanted to assume the position,” explained Fistandantilus. “I am not certain that he wants to assume the position.”

Bowing his head, Denubis muttered what sounded to Fistandantilus to be, “We can only hope.”

“Still,” continued Fistandantilus as if he had heard nothing, “I am confused over it. It would seem to me that Loralon would be the one to assume the position.”

Denubis looked up and stared at Fistandantilus as if it was the first time he had ever seen him. “You would prefer Loralon?” he said in wonder.

“I only said that it seemed to me that he would be the right man for the position,” explained Fistandantilus. “Well, the right elf, that is,” he amended somewhat lamely.

Denubis bowed his head. “I would not know about that. I am a simple priest and I have my duty to transcribe these into Solamnic.” With a nod, he indicated the disks.

Fistandantilus bowed. “I will not disturb you any more,” he said. “But do think on what I offer. If you need me to help guard the disks, or anything else, just ask me.”

Denubis nodded and Fistandantilus left the library. While he returned to his quarters, he reflected that it might be a good thing that Denubis was not that ambitious and not so sure of himself. The priest had an uncanny ability to see things that others did not.

When he got to his lair, he sat and thought about what he had learned.

It was obvious that Ptalamir did not feel comfortable leading the church and the empire. Most kingpriests still gave it a go or attempted to govern to the best of their abilities. That Ptalamir was calling for a new head of the brethren spoke volumes about his confidence in himself. He obviously felt the need to depend on someone else.

Fistandantilus grinned to himself. Depending on the wrong person could become a monumental weakness. Even a fatal one, as he knew.

But the real question was, whom should be the one who becomes this head. Obviously someone who was highly ambitious, that was important. But how ambitious? Ambitious enough to be blind to certain realities, he decided upon reflection. Also, arrogant would be of necessity, arrogant in their certainty and their abilities. Arrogant enough to cause some conflict without realizing they were the cause of it.

He paused as he considered. It was too bad that certain elves he had known were not priests. He had known elvish arrogance and found it most … useful. Some encouragement at the right times, some properly cast spells, and the arrogance could do wonders. Why, he remembered when such arrogance by Sithas, the Speaker of the Stars, helped instigate the Kinslayer War in Silvanesti. Fistandantilus grinned in remembrance. That had been very … entertaining. It was too bad that Kith-Kanan had been wise enough to end the fight and founded Qualinesti where toleration reigned.

But whom amongst the potential candidates had the arrogance needed to inadvertently aid Fistandantilus in his effort? That was the real question. He thought about all of the priests he knew of who might be interested in what would be a very prestigious and, likely, coveted position. With a grimace, he realized he did not know enough about all of the priests to decide whom to throw his secretive support behind.

******

It was several weeks before he overheard something that sounded promising. He had been wondering through the temple gardens. He preferred the shady areas that were remarkably cool and dark. Not that he could move about in the sunlight, he could, but darkness seemed to sooth his sensibilities. It was as if he was meant to operate in darkness. Besides, it made such a great way to hear conversations without being seen. And he didn’t need to cast any magic to hide either. So he was standing in a very shady area when several clerics entered the garden.

He almost left in disgust. One of the two clerics was that arrogant sycophant Quareth. Oh how he despised the arrogant elvish prick, so smug in his righteousness and always supporting the kingpriest, always defending him as if it was his right to do so. But then, he stopped himself in a sudden realization. Arrogant! Quareth was arrogant!

He suddenly decided that he was going to listen to the arrogant elf.

“I do so love the garden,” said one of the clerics sitting on a stone bench. Fistandantilus strove to try to remember her name. Ah yes. Idril. A nice enough elvish lady, though one with the typical arrogance of her kind.

Fistandantilus realized he missed what Quareth had said when Idril said, “Yes, I suppose so. But I do wish they would grow greater trees here.”

“You cannot expect humans to do so,” replied Quareth. “They are too dwarvish in too many ways.”

“Yes, they do love their stonework at the expense of living things.” Fistandantilus saw Idril sigh. “Still, they do love our work, at least those who manage to find their way into our kingdom.”

“Do not remind me,” scoffed Quareth. “They would starve to death simply looking at the wonders of our people.”

“Can you blame them,” asked Idril. “Their lives are so short, they cannot do half of what we can do.”

“In addition, they are all so prone to violence and evil,” stated Quareth. “Witness the Dark One.”

“Oh please,” warned Idril with a shudder, “do not mention him!”

“I will respect your wish, Idril, but even you recognize how weak they are.”

“How can one not?” replied Idril. “Nothing steadfast about them at all. It is a wonder any of them turn towards goodness and the light.”

“Yet they do, or at least a good number of them do,” replied Quareth. “It tells me that they can be led properly, provided we do it right.”

“How would you do that?” asked Idril.

Fistandantilus also wanted to know the answer to _that_ question.

“I have … plans,” responded Quareth vagely. “Of course, it will depend on my achieving more power than I have.”

“So you mean to go through with trying to become Head of the Brethren?” Idril asked.

“I must. It may be the only way I can achieve my goals,” replied Quareth. “Naturally if I succeed, I would become the defacto ruler of the land and defacto next in line to assume the throne of the kingpriest.”

“The kingpriest. I wonder what Eli saw in him,” mused Idril. (Eli was the elvish name for Paladine.)

“He has tremendous goodness in him,” replied Quareth, “such goodness that even I am awed by it. He is an example of what humans can become if they put their minds to it.”

“True,” mused Idril. “But he is not that strong willed.”

“But Eli put him into the position. I tell you, he deserves to be supported,” rejoined Quareth. “In fact, in some ways his views and mine coincide quite nicely.”

“So he means to….” Idril let the sentence trail off.

“Yes he does,” responded Quareth. Fistandantilus wondered if that referred to Ptalamir’s objection towards mages.

Idril stood up. “You know that Loralon will oppose you,” she said. “The moment you enter the race, he will enter it too. He is suspicious of you,” she reminded him.

“Yes, I know,” sighed Quareth. “He always did support the lesser races. I can understand the dwarves, barely. They at least do some good work and respect Eli, calling him Thak the Hammer in their uncouth tongue. But supporting gnomes who really do nothing good, I find that hard to accept. And kender? Why would he support kender?”

“I do not begin to understand his support of them,” responded Idril as they began to move out of the garden.

“If it was between him and me, whom would you support,” asked Quareth.

“Why you, of course,” responded a surprised Idril. “Why did you even ask?”

“I needed to hear it,” said Quareth as they left the garden. “It is nice to hear of support for oneself.”

Fistandantilus listened till the two left the garden. Then he paused, thinking.

Well now. Wasn’t that interesting.

Wasn’t that very interesting.

******

He decided to confront Quareth a few days later. The conversation he had heard promised the potential for massive conflict, but he needed to be sure before he supported the elf. And, of course, it would have to be done quietly. Even Quareth would never accept aid from him.

But if Quareth thought that he opposed him, the elf would trumpet it throughout the temple. That too would not be too good, unless …

Well, unless he could make it that it was personal opposition while he was deliberately staying true to not interfering in church politics. Yes, that could work.

Besides, he needed to know the extent of Quareth’s ambitions and his arrogance.

It was a few days after he made his decision that his opportunity came. It came by a chance encounter. He was walking down one hall, Quareth was walking down the same hall in the opposite direction.

Normally Fistandantilus did his best to ignore Quareth. But this time, everything depended on him engaging him in a conversation. So as they approached, Fistandantilus deliberately nodded his head. “Quareth.”

Quareth almost stopped and starred and it was only habit and self-control that allowed him to resume walking. He too nodded his head towards Fistandantilus. But the tone of his voice could have frozen an iceberg. “Dark One.”

“I hear that congratulations are in order,” continued Fistandantilus as he passed Quareth.

Now Quareth did stop, his astonishment evident. He turned towards the receding figure who has spoken to him. “What for?” he asked, clearly perplexed.

Now Fistandantilus turned. He deliberately modulated his voice so it would sound a bit surprised. “Why, you’re soon to be appointment to Head of the Brethren.”

Quareth shook his head. “You are indeed confused, Dark One. I have only just entered the running for the position.”

Fistandantilus shrugged. “You will get it,” he replied.

Quareth smiled. It was a smile that had no friendliness to it but lots of awareness and even a bit of cunning. Quite odd coming from an elf, the supposed repository of goodness on Krynn. “You display your ignorance, Dark One. Loralon has also entered the competition. There are many who support him.”

“A mere technicality,” scoffed Fistandantilus, as if he knew. Now, the key part. He deliberately lowered his voice to sound as if he was somewhat upset with what he was saying. “You will get the position. There is no doubt about it. I will,” he paused to emphasize the next word, “enjoy,” another pause, then he resumed, “working with you.”

Quareth looked at him, his jaw moving, his face revealing more to Fistandantilus than he realized. Pride and ambition, haughtiness and arrogance, all warred within the elf. The struggle was an open book to the dark mage, who read every emotion, every feeling, as it crossed his face.

Finally, it seemed that haughtiness won out. Maybe with a touch of pride? “You will not enjoy working with me, Dark One,” he said.

Fistandantilus controlled his voice, making his next words sound simply curious. “You mean you are withdrawing from the race? You are not trying to become the Head?” he asked.

“Oh, I am not withdrawing,” replied Quareth. “I mean that if I win, you will not like what I do.”

“And what would you do,” asked Fistandantilus as if he was only mildly interested.

“You have to ask?” answered Quareth. “You and your kind, an abomination towards the gods!” Quareth stopped, as if realizing what he was saying.

Fistandantilus stood still, savage joy spreading through his entire being. This was better than he had hoped. But best to play it as if it was just a curiosity to him. In fact, best to misconstrue what Quareth had just implied. “You mean you wish to get rid of humanity?” he asked as if he were simply interested in the weather.

That pricked Quareth. “I mean you’re kind, wizard!” That last word was full of venom.

Even better. This was getting very good. But best to make it as if he opposed what Quareth wanted. This time, he could, and should, put a small amount of anger into his words. “Indeed. You will find you have taken on more than you realize should you attempt that,” was all he said.

Stung with the opposition, Quareth did exactly as Fistandantilus hoped. He opened up. “You know nothing. By the time we are done, all the abominations, you, your kind, and the various abominable races will be….” He quickly stopped himself, realizing what he was saying. He quickly turned, and resumed his course.

Fistandantilus gazed at the retreating figure. This just might work out very well.

This just might work out very well indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prior four chapters were actually easy. This one was the first hard chapter I had to write. I had to stop and consider much at each point while I was writing it. It was not easy. I really wanted to display Fistandantilus thinking and considering his next move. It is more preparatory for the next step in his plans.
> 
> It would have taken longer but for the fact that I was exposed to Covid. As a result, I am stuck home for a period. True, it is harming my income, but it also gave me a chance to really focus on this chapter. Though I did have to get tested last Friday. Believe me, you do not want to go through it. When they stuck those sticks up my nose, the feeling inside my head was quite noxious. Not painful, there was no pain involved. But it was an ugly feeling. I hope to never have to go through it again. That said, you will be happy to hear that the test came back negative. I know I was relieved.
> 
> I will likely be stuck home for the next week or so, so I will be working on the next chapter, which will also be a very difficult chapter for me. I hope I am able to make it so you can enjoy it.


	6. The Elevation of Quareth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quareth becomes the second most powerful person in the temple and begins to make himself the real power in Istar.

It was the talk of the entire temple. The competition for the Head of the Brethren had become a two way race between Loralon and Quareth. Everyone else had withdrawn from the competition to back one of the two champions.

All eyes were on Loralon. The expectation was that he was going to be the one selected. Most of the common priests and many powerful people supported Loralon. And why not? Loralon was everything that a Head of the Brethren should be. Patient, kind, wise, far seeing, he would be exactly what the temple needed.

He would also be the worst one who could be appointed as far as Fistandantilus and his plans were concerned.

Oh, Quareth had his supporters, mainly amongst the haughty elves. And there were some powerful individuals who supported Quareth’s rise to power. But even amongst the elves only a minority supported him. Still, many who supported Quareth were very, very powerful.

Fistandantilus was secretly one of them.

Fortunately only one voice mattered. Ptalamir was doing his best trying to judge between the two. But Fistandantilus had already started to ensure Quareth would be the one selected. And to that end he had already started to operate. Quietly, but with the right touch of pathos, hope and despair, he let Ptalamir believe that he was opposed to Quareth because, well Quareth was opposed to mages and thought they were unnatural.

Oh, his performance, touched with a bit of magic, was worthy of the theater. Fistandantilus always thought that what magery gained the theater had lost. It had been a masterful performance. Even he had to admit it.

It was not long before he had overheard Quareth gloating towards another elf that Ptalamir had questioned him about his thinking concerning mages. It seemed the two hit it off quite nicely. This pleased Fistandantilus very much. Very much indeed.

But it was just the beginning of his efforts on behalf of Quareth. He was definitely tipping the scales towards Quareth but if he did not keep his attention on the situation Loralon could still become the winner. And there was always the possibility that he would overdo it at a critical moment, misread Ptalamir in a critical way, and inadvertently throw the choice to Loralon. So, he would have to keep an eye on things while doing his best to ensure Ptalamir favored Quareth.

Idly, he wondered what would happen after Quareth was chosen. Would they start moving against the mages? Would he would be called to provide aid? And if so, would he would provide that aid, and if so of what kind?

Details, details. Best to let the future take care of itself. Right now was the present and he had to make sure that Quareth was the winner of the prize.

Meanwhile his other project continued. He had just finished burrowing a long tunnel under the temple and was in the process of cutting out several rooms that would become work study, experimental chamber and personal library. He had plans for other rooms as well. A chamber of seeing for instance. He also had plans for his experiments, especially his experiments with life. Some cages would be needed for those experiments, which meant yet another room. A table where he would withdraw the lives of his apprentices was also needed, which demanded yet another room. Or maybe he could put the table into the same room with the cages. Yes, it would all come together soon.

But he was growing weary. His life energy was dwindling. All the spellcasting was leaving him tired and frail. Worse, none of the current crop of black robes were smart enough to warrant his taking their lives. He had nobody he could use to strengthen himself. Almost certainly this was due to the effort of Takhisis, damn Her!

But he had a fallback he could use. Centuries ago, he had captured five very powerful black robes. Imprisoning them in his fortress of Zhaman, he had enchanted them with a powerful, permanent deep sleep spell as well as a time freeze spell that caused time for them to simply cease moving. His hope was that these five would be a fallback he could use should he ever find a source of lives dry up.

Some time later, he had returned and noted that all five had their lives sucked out of them. This told him he had used the five by traveling from the future to the time just past. Pleased, he decided which times he could come back so he could absorb each life. His protection set, he went on his way.

Four times he had occasion to travel back in time and consume one of the five lives. Sadly there was just one left. His store of lives was dwindling. But that would be enough.

He was not known as the Master of Past and Present for nothing.

He wondered if he should make a new prison and store some more lives onto storage. Then he shrugged. One thing at a time. Take care of the present and ensure he had strong life when he returned from the past. He therefore had to go back in time soon to collect that last life.

Fortunately he had completed one room, a room with a silver circle on the floor. It was his Chamber of Transportation. It would allow him to cast the powerful _Span Land and Time_ spell, taking him into the past. He would arrive in Zhaman, consume that last life, then return, full of vigor.

Gathering the material components necessary, he traveled down the tunnel to his Chamber of Transportation. There, he cast the long spell that transported him over a thousand years into the past.

One week later, he reappeared in the chamber, full of energy, vitality and strength. But as ever he was exhausted. True, returning to the present did not drain him like going into the past did, but he would still need to eat and rest, the spell and the transit was quite draining on him. After that, he would have to find out the status of the competition for the Head of the Brethren.

But when he emerged from the tunnel, he was struck by a terrible sound. The bells of the temple were ringing the sonorous tone of a decision made. It was the worst thing he could have heard.

Ptalamir had made his decision while he was in the past! Takhisis had done her best to make sure he was out of the area during the critical time. _Damn Her!_

Well, no use crying. Best to do was to see whom Ptalamir had selected and act accordingly. Carefully, he moved down the hallway towards the Hall of Audience. If it was Loralon, which was likely, he was prepared to do what was necessary, though he was already considering his options.

When he got to the Hall of Audience, he got a surprise. A very pleasant surprise.

Quareth was standing in front of the doors receiving congratulations from everyone.

Whew! That was a close one. His spell and conversation with Ptalamir had been more than sufficient to elevate Quareth to the august position he now held.

Then he grinned. Takhisis must be fuming. She had done her best and gotten rid of him, but it had not been enough. She had overreached herself. Well, she often did, as he had reason to know.

First things first! Before food and rest, he had to congratulate Quareth in a way that would remind him of what he had “foreseen.” So he got in line. The line was moving slowly and naturally the air around him became chilly. The man in front of him turned, blanched and tried to move out of the way. In a fit of “friendliness,” Fistandantilus insisted that the man remain ahead of him. He smiled as the man began to shiver, but as he did not want to make people too uncomfortable, he simply remained standing where he was and let the man ahead of him move forward.

Finally, there was nobody between him and Quareth. Moving swiftly, he approached the new Head of the Brethren. Quareth’s mouth smiled but his eyes frowned. Indeed, if eyes could reveal a storm in the mind, Quareth’s eyes were expressing the perfect storm.

Fistandantilus bowed as he reached the elf. “What I foresaw has become fact, has it not?” he asked.

The smile faded from Quareth’s face. “Indeed,” was all he said.

Fistandantilus straightened himself. “I shall indeed look forward to … working … with you.”

Quareth tilted his head forward. “I look forward to it too.”

Fistandantilus turned and walked towards the side. Noticing a table full of food, he deliberately went to it and helped himself of a number of delicacies. Then, while he slowly meandered towards his room and his sleep, he ate.

He slept all afternoon and through the night till the next morning. Getting up, he quickly did his morning ritual, then considered his options.

The real issue, as he saw it, was Loralon. Quareth and Loralon were not friends, but it was known that Quareth respected Loralon. At all costs Loralon needed to be gotten rid of.

He figured the best way to do so would be to breed an air of mistrust between Quareth and Loralon. Naturally he could not do a thing with Loralon, the elf was just too aware and suspicious of him. But Quareth, well Fistandantilus could count on Quareth’s arrogance and pride. It certainly could not hurt.

And Ptalamir? Fistandantilus considered, but ultimately rejected the idea of trying to turn Ptalamir against Loralon. Best to work solely through Quareth. Let him get rid of Loralon.

But what to use. He pondered until he came up with a solution. And it was such a simple and elegant one too.

The games of Istar were famous throughout all of Ansalon. Some of the most violent yet exciting competitions occurred in the games. Dwarves, ogres, humans and other races, all would fight and die in the gladiatorial games. There were a number of slaves who fought in the arena, but what may surprise many is how often a gladiator was a free person. It may seem strange to some, but the glory and adulation some of them received was so great that many became gladiators just for a chance at the glory. It certainly helped that many women practically threw themselves at the greatest of the gladiators, at least the greatest of the gladiators of their own race, though there had been instances….

Besides, contrary to popular supposition, the loser was not always killed. In fact, more often than not the loser was allowed to survive for another bout. The key was the roar of the crowds, they appreciated a good fight and if the loser put up an excellent spectacle the crowd would show their appreciation by applauding the loser, indicating that they wanted to see him live to fight again.

Some of the gladiators were famous. One of the most famous was the Hobgoblin Danark, he was renowned for his viciousness. Another crowd favorite was Josepf One-Eye; nobody knew why Joseph called himself One-Eye because he always fought in a full suit of Solamnic battle armor, but the name had stuck. Arack Rockbreaker, one of the meanest dwarves to ever live, made his name by fighting and defeating the legendary minotaur Darmoork. Well, technically he defeated Darmoork, the fact is he and an ogre named Raag were fighting the minotaur and when Darmoork threw Arack out of the arena, Raag got angry and threw Darmoork up in the air. His body came crashing down onto the Freedom Spire and it took days before the corpse was finally removed. Arack survived because he fell right in front of a passing cleric who promptly saved his life.

Probably the most famous of the gladiators was a human called Flammus. A true slave, he fought so well he had won the golden key of freedom five times. Each time, Flammus turned down the golden key so he could continue fighting. Some said that all the women who kept wanting to bed him was the supreme reason he kept turning down the key, though others said that he just loved to fight.

Contrary to what one might expect when looking back in history, women could become gladiators too. Some became justifiably famous. Stories are still told how Valkeryie, a slave who was supposed to die, showed how great a warrior she was by defeating five foes on her first bout. People still talk about how Bellatrix and Duncan fought each other for hours before they “surrendered” to each other, to the appreciative roar of the crowds, for men and women fought each other in the games. Gladiators who relaxed because their opponent was a woman usually lost when the woman, in true gladiatorial style, thrust their weapon through the heart of their opponent. Be it spear, sword or trident, the women in the arena were dangerous and famous for it.

But it was the deaths in the games that revolted the elves. The average life expectancy of a gladiator was five fights. Many did not survive their first bout. Poor fighters were almost universally executed by the victor. And sometimes even the crowd could not save the life of the loser. One of the most famous fights occurred between the then champion Tetraites and a new gladiator the ogre Brorg. Brorg had fought so well the bout continued on for hours. It was only the skill of the exhausted Tetraites that allowed him to win by stunning then stabbing Brorg in the abdomen. The crowd had loved the fight and wanted to keep Brorg alive, but the wound was just too deep and serious. Brorg had died in the arena, to the sorrow of the audience.

These thoughts went through Fistandantilus’s head relatively quickly. Yes, the games would be sufficient to gain the attention of both Quareth and Loralon. With their elvish respect for life, both certainly hated the games. But the difference was that Loralon was wise and understood that the games played an important role in the affairs of humanity, he simply avoided the games and all talk about them. But Quareth, he was arrogant and sure of himself. Almost certainly he could be persuaded to do something stupid, like shutting down the games.

He thought about it and liked the idea. It would turn people against the temple, separate Loralon and Quareth and help to plant the seeds where, if he tended them well enough, would allow him to take over.

It might even turn the humans against the elves. That would be very interesting in and of itself too.

Quickly he made his plans, then he waited till chance should bring him and Quareth together. He hoped to get together with the Head of the Brethren within a few days. Unfortunately, several months later he still had not arranged a moment where the two ran into each other.

To make things harder, Ptalamir had taken to having Fistandantilus near his throne in the Hall of Audience every day the hall was open for supplicants. Ptalamir requested it in case the mage could give any advice or information concerning anything that was coming up. Fistandantilus valued this greatly, it could allow him to plant false information into Ptalamir’s ears at the right moment. He made sure he was always there in the Hall of Audience.

Unfortunately, his times hanging around the throne of the kingpriest prevented him from “running into Quareth” by chance. Quareth would race into the Hall of Audience, perform his duty, then race out when the time of the audience was finished. It irritated Fistandantilus to no end, but there was nothing he could do about it.

But when an acolyte came to his room looking for him and bearing a sealed envelope from Quareth, Fistandantilus learned that his efforts to run into Quareth would not be needed. The acolyte had brought an invitation to the dark mage, an invitation to dine together on a certain date. Naturally Fistandantilus graciously accepted. But to say that the invitation unnerved him would be to put it simply.

Elves as a rule do not perform business while dining. But it was very impolite to not remain and discuss issues after the meal was over. Quareth was hunting, or at the very least fishing for information. But what was he hunting and what did Fistandantilus know that he wanted to know? Most importantly, how could he avoid telling him?

Quareth was obviously more dangerous than he had given him credit for. And he was likely very aware. A new respect emerged for the elf. He would have to be very careful.

He was even more unnerved when he arrived at the appointed time into the quarters of Quareth to find a very lavish feast sitting. Quareth was going all out, even to the point of supplying him with meat, something that elves absolutely hated. True, it was the leg and thigh of a chicken, but it was still meat. Fistandantilus wondered how much it must have churned the elf’s stomach to even look at it. Naturally Quareth’s plate was nothing but vegetables and fruits.

What Fistandantilus noted, however, was the bottle of wine in the table. The look was of a rich, golden red. The scent had a particular scent, one that brought tears to one’s eyes. It was a rare Silvanesti wine, one that Fistandantilus relished.

Quareth was obviously up to something. Fistandantilus had to be on his guard.

“I see that your eyes are drawn towards the wine I am serving,” remarked Quareth genially.

“If it is what I think it is, it is a rare and delicious wine indeed,” responded Fistandantilus.

“In your tongue it is known as Goldenfields Ruby,” responded the cleric.

The mage smiled. “Ah yes, a most delightful and subtle wine. It has been years since I have enjoyed a good Rubei Malthenthardor,” he said as he sat down.

The elf’s eyebrows shot up. “You know the tongue, he said.”

The human nodded. “I have been in Silvanost before.” Then, as Quareth indicated a certain disbelief, he went on. “It was many years ago. Back when Silvanos was the Speaker. And young,” he concluded.

“Forgive me for doubting you,” replied Quareth, “but my people refuse to allow a black robe into the capital city. It is rare enough when we allow a red robe within our borders.”

“That is true,” acknowledged Fistandantilus. “But you see, this happened when I was very young. I wore the red robes then,” he finished by way of explanation.

“Ah,” said Quareth. “I wonder why you changed your allegiance.”

Fistandantilus smiled. “It is for me to know. I assure you, knowledge of it would have little bearing on anything here.”

“I see,” said Quareth. “Please, take a seat. The food is delicious and the wine is excellent.”

They sat down to dine. After sharing a few pleasantries, they got down to the business of eating.

During the meal, Fistandantilus expressed his astonishment that he would be allowed to eat meat in front of the elf. “It is astonishing to me that you allow me to eat it in your rooms,” he said. “I know that elves have a regard for life that marks it as all but sacred. Yet here, you have served me this fine leg of chicken.”

“I try to be a good host,” Quareth replied.

“Oh, I am not disparaging your hospitality. Far from it,” replied Fistandantilus. “I merely wanted to inform you that if you wish to host me again, feel free to simply present me with one of your famous Silvanesti dishes. I know they are delicious and I would be quite satisfied with one of them.” He pointed to his own plate. “I notice that you are serving me part of the very excellent dish you are eating yourself. Trust me, this would be enough for me to be completely satisfied.”

“I do hope I am being a good host,” replied Quareth a bit miffed.

“Oh, you are,” responded Fistandantilus affably. “I cannot remember when I had a better time with such a good host. It is just that,” here Fistandantilus began to twist a tall tale, “humans as a rule should be concerned about the sensibilities of the host.”

Quareth was a bit surprised over this statement. “I have never heard of such a claim,” he honestly said.

“It is one that is not taught much today,” stated Fistandantilus. “But I come from an older time when such sensibilities were considered important. I do hope you are not too put out by serving me something I know you are revolted by,” he concluded.

“Not at all,” reassured Quareth. “To be fair, your concern is very enlightened. I will remember it the next time we dine together.”

“You are an excellent host,” the mage concluded.

The two continued to dine as a second course was brought in and continued to converse about what Quareth assumed were light topics. For the most part they were. But Fistandantilus was able to slip in his talk about the games of Istar. “I really do not see why you are allowing it,” mentioned the mage as they talked about the games. “I know elves hold life to be sacred and the fact that the games still continue is of curiosity to me.”

“It does irritate me,” admitted Quareth. “But do rest assured, we will deal with it soon enough.”

Fistandantilus secretly grinned to himself. The games were now in the attention span of Quareth. He would simply need to sit back and let events take their course.

Finally the last course was served, the last wine was sipped and the meal ended. Fistandantilus was warry. He knew that, per elvish custom, the real purpose of the meal was now about to be discussed.

Quareth led Fistandantilus into his living room and the two sat and talked, sipping wine and discussing things. Fistandantilus was content to let Quareth lead the discussion, knowing that sooner or later he would come to the topic that interested him.

Finally, Quareth broached the subject. “I assume you know that the kingpriest intends to move against the mages sooner or later.”

Ah, so this was what the meal was all about. He knew the kingpriest considered mages to be unnatural. Actually, as far as Fistandantilus was concerned, the kingpriest considered mages to be obscene. But he simply nodded in response.

“You have mentioned the defenses the mages have,” admitted Quareth. “I must admit they do appear to be formidable. But there is a way around each and every defense. Tell me, how can we get past the five defenses?”

Fistandantilus considered. This was the moment of truth. To aid the kingpriest or not to aid him.

If he did, he would be turning his back on the other wizards, on the conclave, even on the gods of magic. It would be as great a betrayal as there ever was. He would be a renegade, existing outside the rules of the conclave. Though, as he well knew, not outside the declarations of the three gods. Many of the laws of the conclave were more to force people to adhere to the principles of the conclave, not a rejection of the ways of the three gods.

But if he did not, he would be abandoning this attempt to gain control of Ansalon, and through Ansalon all of Krynn. He would be forced to start from scratch for the kingpriest would never accept him again. It might takes decades, centuries even, before another opportunity like this emerged.

Fistandantilus decided it was best to answer cautiously. “It is possible,” he admitted, making it sound as if he was reluctantly admitting this. In truth, there was only some reluctance. “Each of the towers have particular charms that can be used to evade, or mitigate, the effects of their particular woods. That is, there are charms for four of the woods.”

Quareth leaned forward. “Four of them?” he asked.

“The Guardian Forest, the wood that guards the Tower of Wayreth,” explained Fistandantilus. “To enter that forest, one needs no such charm. Instead, they need the approval of the master of the tower. I cannot help you with that one.”

Quareth’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Because of the nature of the defense of the wood. No charm is possible there because the wood is under the direct control of the master of the tower.”

“Why is it impossible there?” Quareth’s voice was hard. “We could send thousands of troops to destroy the tower.”

“You could send thousands of thousands of troops there but you would never find it,” responded Fistandantilus. “The Guardian Forest protects the tower in two ways. First, anyone who enters it with hostile intent, or without the express permission of the master of the tower of Wayreth would be ripped apart by the trees. But that is if you can find a way to get in. For that, good luck. The Guardian Forest protects Wayreth another way, by displacing the tower. Wherever you think the tower is, wherever you send the forces, the Guardian Forest will not be there. You can never get inside.”

Quareth frowned, not liking what he heard. “But what about the other four groves?” he finally asked.

“Those I can aid you with. They do not depend on the will of their respective master of the tower,” responded Fistandantilus.

“I think you mentioned a charm,” observed Quareth.

“That is true,” replied Fistandantilus.

“Could you make enough charms so all of our soldiers could pass through?” enquired Quareth.

Fistandantilus did not want to spend so much effort to make so many charms. Best to reply in a way that would discourage that desire. “That would take decades, maybe a century for just one tower.”

“That is not very helpful,” replied Quareth.

Fistandantilus decided to hedge his options. “What I can do, and this would take much less time, would be to create a scroll, or four scrolls, one for each tower that you wish to attack. If I can do this right, all you would have to do is open the scroll, read it out loud and everyone within hearing distance would be charmed against the magic of the wood.”

“Now that is interesting,” replied Quareth. “How long would it take you to make?”

Quareth was obviously thinking in terms of days, even weeks. Realistically, Fistandantilus could do it in hours, but he decided it was best to put the damper on the idea. “No less than several years, if it is at all possible. I would literally be researching a new spell for you,” he stated. Then, the killer section that should discourage him. “Of course, to activate it you would need to read the spell out loud in the language of magic.”

“Not good at all,” responded Quareth.

Fistandantilus realized that Quareth was quite determined to attack the mages. Very well. Let him. But he was going to take some time to do it whether he liked it or not. Appearing to think, he spoke slowly and deliberately. “You know there might be another option,” he trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.

“What is this option?”

“Well,” Fistandantilus allowed the l’s to sound for a few seconds. “it might be possible…,” Fistandantilus paused as if he was considering. “But it would take about four years to complete. The technical aspects are most complex.”

“I would almost think you are deliberately trying to delay this,” said Quareth.

Fistandantilus allowed himself to gaze at Quareth askance. “You are asking me for my aid. I am trying to tell you the options.”

“I don’t like it,” muttered Quareth.

Fistandantilus shrugged. “You have waited all this time to attack magic,” he observed. “Certainly four years would be a small time to wait.”

“I suppose you are right,” sighed Quareth. “Explain this option to me.”

“I would be making a construct. Well, four constructs, one for each tower you wish to attack. Inside each construct I would set up the spell. Normally the one who activates it would have to speak the words in the language of magic,” Fistandantilus noticed Quarath’s eyes narrowing but he continued on as if nothing untoward had happened, “but with some effort I can make it so a common phrase would activate the spell.”

“And this would….”

“Plant the appropriate charm on everyone within a certain range of the spell. So you would want to make sure all of your soldiers are within the range,” observed Fistandantilus dryly.

Quareth sighed. “The kingpriest will not like hearing this.”

“He would like hearing less that there is no option to getting through the woods,” observed Fistandantilus. “I am certain he will accept it, provided you find a way to plan the attacks.” _And with the long delay, maybe you can focus your energies on the games first, doing irretrievable harm to yourself and your temple,_ thought Fistandantilus.

Quareth sighed again. “True,” he observed. “Why have I never heard of these types of spells before?” he suddenly asked.

“Because we almost never make them,” replied Fistandantilus. “They always take a long time to make and for us it is normally better to simply cast the spells.” _And they are usually used for very specific purposes but you do not need to know that._

“I see.” Quareth sat there, thinking about it for a while. “Very well. Please start making them.”

Fistandantilus nodded his head. “Very well.”

******

One thing about Quareth, Fistandantilus decided. When a thought enters his head, he pursued it. The result was making Fistandantilus smile.

Quareth was already speaking out against the games of Istar, how the games were nothing but displays of killing, sources of evil pleasure over murder. He cried out about how important it was to stop the killing that occurred in the games. As far as he was concerned, there was only one way to stop the killing and that was to stop the games.

This was putting Loralon in a bind. He was also against the killing in the games, what elf wasn’t, but he knew how it seemed to calm humans, especially humans in major urban areas like Istar. Though he admitted he hated the killing, he also stated, with admitted regret, that it was important to let the games continue for the sake of the humans. But while he was in the temple he was duty bound to follow the Head of the Brethren. He could not both oppose and accept the games. It would have to be one or the other.

When Loralon started to reluctantly support the games, a feud erupted in the temple.

The feud in the temple increased the pride and arrogance of Quareth. He was the Head of the Brethren, he was going to have his way in things. His focus was on Eli’s Doctrine of Goodness, it needed to be supreme over all. Goodness had to prevail, anything that allowed evil was anathema to the doctrine of goodness. Quareth’s greatest concern was towards Gilean’s Doctrine of Freedom. The doctrine of freedom allowed its adherents, humans, to choose evil. In Quareth’s mind, this showed how evil the doctrine of freedom was.

To defeat freedom and assure the triumph of goodness, elves needed to assume their rightful place as leaders of everything. Humans needed to be given strict structure, give them enough structure and they would be happy. To achieve this, certain things had to be done. Quareth knew what needed to be done to bring humans in line.

Quareth knew he had won when Ptalamir, a supremely good human and in all ways a paragon of what humanity could achieve, started listening to Quareth, drinking in his words like a hungry deer.

******

One day, over a year after Quareth had been appointed Head of the Brethren, Fistandantilus had reason to walk out of the temple. What the reason is or what he did is not important. What is important is that when he was reentering the temple he overheard a conversation.

“Are you sure you have to leave? We do need you,” said a female voice.

Curious, Fistandantilus looked towards the voice. It was Idril, the elven daughter of Paladine. And with her was Loralon. They were exiting the temple.

“I am afraid I must, dearest daughter,” replied Loralon. “Nothing I do here has any meaning anymore.”

“But you can make peace with Quareth, I know it,” rejoined Idril. “He will accept your wisdom.”

Loralon shook his head. “I have tried, my dear. I have failed. No, I must leave. Besides, Silvanesti beckons and I do miss the song of the aspen.”

“I fear I will be joining you soon,” replied Idril. “I too long to see my home. It has been too long.”

Loralon sighed. “It will be good to see you there as well. Yours will be a familiar face for me.”

Loralon stopped. He had seen Fistandantilus who gazed back at him. For a minute the two looked at each other. Then Loralon resumed his walk.

“Keep an eye on him, dearest daughter,” instructed Loralon. “He is up to something, I know it.”

“Perhaps I should let Quareth know.”

“That would be an excellent idea.”

Fistandantilus shook his head. It was a very good thing that Quareth, not Loralon, won the struggle for the post.

******

Several months later, Quareth invited Fistandantilus to another meal. This time the mage noted that both dishes were pure Silvanesti dishes, though the mage also noted that his had a milk based cream sauce on top that Quareth’s dish did not.

“They are merely variants of the same dish,” explained Quareth to Fistandantilus’s raised eyebrow. “We do not find milk odious like we do meat. I myself prefer not to use the cream sauce, but there are those who think it excellent. If you are worried about my sensibilities, know that this does not disturb them.” Fistandantilus bowed his head in acknowledgement as the two started their repast.

Finally, the last bit of food was consumed, the last light conversation concluded and the two retired into Quareth’s living room for the main reason for the meal.

“I was wondering how you were coming along with the spells for the four towers,” Quareth asked.

“They are coming along,” lied Fistandantilus. Indeed, he could make the four spells in a matter of hours, but there was no need to inform Quareth. He decided he would hedge a bit. “They are taking a bit longer than I anticipated.”

“That is most annoying,” responded Quareth.

“Still, it is all to the good for I am ensuring that the four spells will work perfectly,” soothed Fistandantilus. “I am the master of my craft and I do prefer that all of my spells are perfect to the last detail.”

“Is that why you are considered to be the greatest of all mages?” Quareth was curious.

“It is part of it,” explained Fistandantilus. “My age and my power also play roles in my skill. The older a mage is, the stronger they are.”

“That is true amongst my people as well,” observed Quareth. “Though I must admit that few have achieved the level of power you have.”

Fistandantilus bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I will make sure you get the spells.”

Quareth was suddenly curious. “So you intend to go through with it, to support the wishes of the kingpriest against your own.”

Wondering where this was going, Fistandantilus nodded his head. “I did give my word to Ptalamir.”

“I find this … astonishing,” observed Quareth.

“You should not,” replied the mage. “It is all in my service to my god.”

“To Takhisis?” Quareth was astonished.

“Nuitari,” Fistandantilus corrected.

“But, Nuitari is Dragonqueen’s son, is he not?”

“That is true, but Nuitari’s allegiance is towards the magic, not his mother,” explained Fistandantilus. “In doing what I am doing, I am honoring my god.”

Quareth sat forward, curiosity written on his face. “I have heard that the wizards of Solinari also serve Solinari first, but they also serve Eli.”

“That is true,” admitted Fistandantilus, “but Solinari and Paladine tend to see eye to eye as it were. While Takhisis and Nuitari disagree with each other constantly. Ambition, you see.”

“But…” Quareth was clearly confused.

“I have opposed Takhisis constantly,” explained Fistandantilus. “I have opposed her coming into the world several times, and will continue to do so.”

“But she is your queen,” observed Quareth.

“She is the queen of all,” replied Fistandantilus, “but if she enters the world and wins, all of our ambitions would be crushed. She would rule all, her power would be absolute.”

“All ambitions?” asked Quareth.

“All!” replied Fistandantilus. “Including yours. And mine. Nuitari’s ambitions would be crushed. I therefore oppose her.”

“So this, which you are doing, is done to oppose Dragonqueen?” Quareth was astonished.

“In part,” admitted Fistandantilus. “There are other reasons as well, though they do not fall within the purview of this discussion.

Quareth, not wishing to pursue the obvious line of enquiry, sat back, clearly disturbed. Fistandantilus wondered what was causing the disturbance in the elf. After a minute, he sat forward. “I too, have something I wish to talk about,” he said to the elf.

Quareth looked at him, waiting.

“There are two pieces of advice I have for you,” explained Fistandantilus. “First, I would advise that if you have multiple goals in mind, to go for the easier goal first.”

“There is a reason for this?” enquired Quareth.

“There is,” responded Fistandantilus. “The more successes you have, the easier it is to get people in line with further plans.”

Quareth rubbed his jaw. “I must admit, that makes sense,” he observed.

Fistandantilus smiled inwardly. This would likely push Quareth towards the easy goal first.

“Second, plan carefully and pay attention to all the details,” said Fistandantilus. “Takhisis is found in the details.”

“Dragonqueen is in the details?” asked Quareth.

“Yes, She is in the details,” replied Fistandantilus.

Quareth’s eyes shot upward. “Explain!”

“Takhisis is ambitious, supremely so,” replied Fistandantilus. “She will do all she can to thwart our plans. Yours and mine. It is therefore imperative that you plan carefully. Very carefully, to ensure that no mistakes, no problems, can occur.”

_Of course, you could prevent it all by replacing her._

Fistandantilus stared forward, his face suddenly a frozen mask. That damned stray thought again.

Quareth sat back, considering. Fistandantilus sipped the wine. It was another bottle of that excellent Rubei Malthenthardor from Silvanesti. Meanwhile, he contemplated everything.

Quareth was already showing signs of being the one who would run everything in the name of the Kingpriest. Ptalamir would be relegated more towards the sidelines, though if he made a decision even Quareth would have to follow it. He would not be surprised to find that many day to day actions would not make it to the ears of the Kingpriest, as Quareth assumed more power.

He was also quite hostile towards the games. It would not be long before he talked to Ptalamir about the killing in the games. Ptalamir, with his sensitive nature, would wish to end the killing. That would allow Quareth to do the one thing that would be the worst possible thing he could do, close the games. Fistandantilus expected everything to start breaking apart about a year after the closure of the games.

Yes, things were going along very nicely.

So Fistandantilus thought.

Until Quareth spoke, and in doing so reminded Fistandantilus that not all things go the way one thinks they are going.

“Idril was right,” Quareth mused softly. “You _**are**_ up to something.” He paused, thinking. “I had almost forgotten how dangerous you are.”

Fistandantilus was stunned. Yes, there was always the chance that this would happen, but that it happened now was most … unfortunate. It meant that Quareth was going to be even more on his guard.

Fistandantilus raised an eyebrow, enquiring what brought this about.

Quareth spoke. “You are evil. Your words, plus the words of another, have reminded me of this. There is purpose in what you are doing. And you display your evil openly.”

“I do wear the black robes,” Fistandantilus acknowledged Quareth.

“That you do,” replied Quareth.

Fistandantilus’s brow wrinkled. “You have long disliked me,” he observed. “I had thought we were getting a bit friendlier. I assume this thought was wrong?”

“It is wrong,” replied Quareth. “We are opponents and you have a purpose, a purpose that is opposed to my purpose. Still, we can be civil towards each other. And I must admit, your advice is excellent.”

“I am glad you appreciate my advice,” said Fistandantilus. He could have said more, talked about how important it was to him for the kingpriest to listen to his advice, but something told him it was best to shut his mouth, to be quiet. Quareth’s sudden realization had dismayed him.

Quareth sipped his wine. “I do hope you enjoyed this dinner. Unfortunately it may be a while before there is another.”

Fistandantilus shrugged. Nothing had really changed between him and Quareth. Quareth was still mistrustful of him. Thanks to the warning by Idril, he was even more on his guard.

Still, there were advances. Even with the problem of Quareth being suspicious again, he was likely to focus on the games first. And that was all to the good. Fistandantilus smiled. Closing down the games would cause all sorts of complications.

Yes! The next few years should be very interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter it was important to flesh out Quareth. He will be the main, and the real, living antagonist that Fistandantilus has for much of this story. People who have read the "Time of the Twins" will remember Quareth. Many will have been wondering why he was such a minor, piddling individual. Well, I wanted him to start out as such, then to rise to power. Now he has risen to power. His arrogance will be displayed in the remaining chapters I have him in.
> 
> I also wanted to have Fistandantilus overreach himself. Towards the end, he certainly does that. Quareth is now warned about the mage, reminded of his evil and is wary. But true to the nature of arrogance, which Quareth has in abundance, he is proceeding headlong towards his own doom. As is Fistandantilus.
> 
> One thing that may interest the reader is how I treated the games of Istar. It is actually a bit more sophisticated than was presented in the Time of the Twins. There is a reason for this. I utilized actual historical examples in my descriptions. Free people in Rome really did join the gladiator pits for the reasons given in the story here. And some of the events did happen in real life. For one I left in the actual name of the Roman gladiator, Flammus, who did win his freedom five times but turned it down each time in order to continue fighting. And though I changed the names on a few others, like the two warriors who surrendered to each other, I kept the details remarkably like what really came down to us. George R. R. Martin, in his _Tales of Fire and Ice_ series, drew extensively from history. Could I do less when describing the Games of Istar?
> 
> I was able to finish this quickly because I was stuck home. It was a most difficult chapter but I am glad I was able to get it done. But I cannot guarantee that I will be able to update these on a weekly basis. I will be resuming work next week and the easy chapters are, for the most part, behind me. Still, I intend to finish this series so I hope you bear with me.


	7. The Goodness of the Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the Kingpriest starts to legislate goodness.

“For these reasons it is so ordered that the Games are hereby ended.”

With these words, Sir Raymond, Knight of the Sword and head of the Solamnic Guard around the Kingpriest, completed reading the order that officially banned the Games.

Guarded by knights, carpenters erected signs around the Arena declaring the Games forever closed. Other carpenters boarded up the public entrances of the Arena. Other knights received curses and shouts from various people who were quite angered to hear that there would no longer be any entertainment. Many a young woman wept bitterly over the disaster. Word started to spread that various Games would be started in various locations. Agents listening in noted the locations mentioned, vowing to keep an eye on those places to make sure no Games were performed.

All of the gladiators left, all of them wearing the armor they were known for and carrying the weapons of their trade. They marched in single file, bowing and playing to the crowd. Many vowed they would return to entertain the people once again, but all knew the odds of that were extreme. As the last of them left Istar, a pall seemed to settle over the crowd. It was as if an age had ended.

The elves, when they heard the announcement, were almost universally in favor of it. The terrible slaughter of life that was the hallmark of the Games was ended.

Sir Raymond had no opinion about the Games one way or another. It was enough that he was doing his duty to serve the Kingpriest who had, literally, saved him from death itself. As he received reports that the messages were posted and the entrances boarded up, he marched into the Hall of Audience and reported to Ptalamir.

“Sir, I have the duty to report that your orders have been carried out to the letter.”

Fistandantilus, who was there, grinned. _Now we will see,_ he thought to himself.

He knew it was coming a few weeks earlier. After all, he had been there when the elves, many from Silvanesti, others from Qualinesti, had approached the Kingpriest with a petition. “We ask you to please close down the Games,” they had essentially said. “The killing of people for sport is as barbaric an act as there is, one we cannot condone. We plead with you, noble Harbinger of good and Kingpriest of Istar, to end the barbarism, to end the Games.”

Fistandantilus did not even have to do anything. The elves had long wanted to end the Games. Now with such a good and holy man on the throne they had their chance. And when Ptalamir had agreed, Fistandantilus had been pleasantly surprised to find that Quareth had already made plans for just this.

Yes. Now we will see.

Several weeks later, the Kingpriest was trying to deal with the consequence of another decision the Kingpriest had authorized. Thanks to his enlightened love and devotion towards life, a devotion that effectively made Ptalamir an honorary elf in the eyes of Quareth, all executions in the lands of the Istar Empire had been halted. No longer were people condemned to death. The executioners block no longer saw any business. In fact, the business of the executioner had been ended as well.

Well, all but a few executions were ended. The Solamnic knights, who adhered to a strict code from the days of Vinus Solamnus, still practiced the barbaric act of execution; they slit the condemned’s throat with their own sword. But Ptalamir had his priests negotiating with the leadership of the knighthood, he hoped that the knighthood would soon end that barbaric practice.

Unfortunately there was a consequence. The prisons were filling up quite rapidly. More people were imprisoned all the time. All sorts of crimes, from common robbery to murder, had resulted in imprisonment. Executions, which had once cleaned out the prisons, were no more. As a result, the prisons were getting more crowded all the time. Even Quareth was looking towards the Kingpriest for guidance.

Ptalamir had therefore asked his aids for information why each prisoner was in prison. His aids, for he had established the head of each religious order as an aid, had leapt into action, gathering the information required and put it into a report. Quareth was here to read the report.

Fistandantilus already knew why most of the people were prisoners. He knew the hardships that so many went through. He knew the darkness that consumed many, the darkness that propelled others to commit hideous wrongs that forced others into lives of crime. And as Quareth read the report, it for the most part agreed with what Fistandantilus knew. Except he also knew that some of the prisoners were lying about their situation.

“Of the crime of thievery, it has been noted that ninety-five percent of the culprits had no home and were penniless. The remaining five percent had gone into thievery as a profession because either they wanted to or it excited them.”

“Of the crime of burglary, we have noted that eighty-five percent of the culprits started out because they had no home and were penniless. Of the remaining fifteen percent, most had started out as thieves and were simply transferring to what they considered to be a more profitable profession. Just a few started out as burglars because they had the opportunity.”

“And the prostitutes?” enquired Ptalamir.

Quareth glanced down his sheet. “Of those who are prostitutes, all of them female I might add, all of them had strong issues. Many were homeless or penniless and of those who were not they had children to feed, children who were starving in front of their eyes. We cannot find a single one who went into prostitution because they wanted to.”

Fistandantilus smiled at that one. He knew of a few women who went into prostitution because they wanted to. But even he had to admit that most of the women went into it for the reason Quareth had stated.

“So it can be said that for the majority of these crimes they went into it because of the hard economic situations they were in?” Ptalamir enquired.

“That is what our research tells us,” answered Quarth.

“Thank you. Now, I want information on the violent crimes.”

“I have that as well.” Quareth cleared his throat then resumed. “For the violent crime of mugging, where the robbed is beat up, it must be pointed that over eighty-five percent were either without a home, without any money, or without both. We do find that a significant number started to commit this crime because they were exhorted to by their friends, though it must be pointed out that many of those regretted doing it.”

“For the crime of murder, we must, however, admit that most of the perpetrators were actually in very good situations,” stated Quareth, “to the tune of over ninety-five percent….”

“Most of them?” exclaimed an astonished Ptalamir.

“I am afraid so,” replied Quareth. “That said, we did find out that the majority of the murders were what could be called crimes of passion. The killer acted in a fit of madness and regrets what they did.”

“I doubt that anyone would want to try to reform a murderer,” stated Revered Daughter Lysandra, the head of the order of Mishikal, goddess of healing.

Quareth nodded at Lysandra. “I can sympathize with your feelings, revered daughter. The taking of a life would be most odious to you. More so than it would be to us elves, and I can assure you that it is quite obnoxious to us.”

“Still, it is excellent information,” replied Ptalamir. “There might be something we can do for those who regret what they have done.”

Lysandra scowled but held her peace. The question put her into a double bind, one she could not answer.

“That is an unfortunate truth,” observed Ptalamir. “We need to be more charitable towards those who regret what they have done.” Lysandra nodded her head, but one could tell she was not holding charitable thoughts towards murderers.

“I must also point out that there are a few obdurate individuals who enjoy killing,” reported Quareth.

“Why am I not surprised?” asked Lysandra rhetorically.

“About how many,” asked Ptalamir.

“It is estimated that about one percent of the murderers actually enjoy killing,” replied Quareth.

Fistandantilus smiled to himself. If the number who enjoyed killing was under twenty percent of the killers, he would stop using the bloodstone and let himself die.

“It has to be more than that,” objected Jetchi, the Sensai of the Monks of Majere, Lord of Stern Discipline.

“Do you have any reason to believe that the number is greater than what your research tells you,” asked Ptalamir.

“No, my lord kingpriest,” said Quareth.

“Is there anything more to report?”

“Lastly there is organized criminal activity,” responded Quareth. “The reports I have given have generally referred to individualized criminal activity. There is a larger percentage of those who willingly join some form of criminal gang. I was not able to determine how much greater, but it seems that for those who are not part of a gang there seems to be some sort of glamor, a romance if you will, belonging to such gangs.”

“Romance? I find that hard to believe,” scoffed Lysandra.

“I agree with you Lysandra, but still this is the reasoning we have discovered,” responded Quareth. “To be fair, we have learned that most of those who join because of the ‘romance’,” Quareth emphasized the word romance, “tend to be disillusioned quite quickly and regret their decision.”

“If this is true, why do so many remain with the gangs?” enquired Jetchi.

“It seems that these gangs have means of encouraging gang members to remain,” responded Quareth. “The leadership spends more time enforcing their power than anything else and the penalty for leaving is quite deadly.”

“More time enforcing their power?” asked Ptalamir.

“They will seek out those who leave and kill them,” responded Quareth.

Lysandra simply shook her head. Jetchi looked grave. Others expressed themselves in various ways. None liked what they had just heard.

“I must point out that even with this glamour that seems to attach towards gangs, the majority of those who do join do so out of poverty and despair,” concluded Quareth.

“Thank you my Head of the Brethren,” replied Ptalamir. “You have confirmed me in my decision.”

Everyone looked at each other. Even Fistandantilus, standing in the corner out of the way like he usually did, was astonished. A decision had been made? And he had no inkling about it?

“It has been my view that most of the prisoners were prisoners not because of what they wanted but because of circumstance,” explained Ptalamir. “Even before I asked you all to undertake the study, I was thinking about the kindest and most humane way to deal with these people. I was already convinced that most of them were not criminals because of any desire to do ill but because of circumstances that was beyond their control. Your examination and report has confirmed this to me, the majority of those who commit crimes do so because of the crime that was visited upon them, the crime of poverty.”

“I know that some of you object to the institution of slavery, but think about it. The slave finds discipline needed to succeed at their tasks. They find food and clothing appropriate to the seasons. They find shelter when they desperately need it. They are removed from situations like poverty where they would be tempted towards a life of crime. They will find gainful labor for their masters and will be taken care of. A good and benevolent master would be the best thing for most of these people.”

"Isn't it logical, therefore that slavery is not only the answer to the problem of overcrowding in our prisons but is a most kind and beneficent way of dealing with these poor people, whose only crime is that they have been caught in a web of poverty from which they cannot escape? Of course it is!”

“It is our duty, therefore, to help them. As slaves, they will be fed, clothed and housed. They will be given everything they lacked that forced them to turn to a life of crime. We will see to it that they are well-treated, and provide that after a certain period of servitude - if they have done well - they may purchase their own freedom. They will then return to us as productive members of society.”

“I therefore urge you, Quareth, to seek a way to start selling the prisoners into slavery so they can start the long road towards redemption.”

Fistandantilus starred, totally astonished. He had never heard more stupidity in his life, and in his long life he had heard a lot. To claim that slavery would help to redeem an individual was laughable. Most slaves hated being slaves and for those few slaves who enjoyed it ….

Well, Fistandantilus did not know of any slaves who enjoyed being a slave.

He wondered how far the institution would hurt the economy. Not that it was his concern, but in harming the economy slavery would hurt the temple in the long run. And the best thing? He did not have to do a thing. Sometimes Nuitari gave generously.

“I know just how to get it done,” said a voice. Quareth! Fistandantilus glanced at the elf. His eyes were lit with a fierce joy. “Leave it in our hands. Your intentions will be done.”

Fistandantilus had to smile. Quareth was proving to be less a priest than a greedy, grasping individual who sought out wealth and power.

Ptalamir nodded at Quareth. “Thank you noble Quareth. Please see to it, all of you.”

Well, that was a dismissal if there ever was one. The aids of the Kingpriest started to file out. Fistandantilus hung back till the others had left, then he slowly walked and left the Hall. Walking slowly, he decided to see if he could be of any aid to Quareth. Not that he thought the elf would accept any aid, but it was always good to present oneself. Moving at a leisurely pace, he finally reached Quareth’s apartments. The elf was there, issuing instructions. He turned and saw the mage when one standing in front of him glanced at the door and gasped.

Quareth bowed. “Hello Dark One. What can I do for you today?”

Fistandantilus bowed back. “I was wondering if you needed any aid in your present duties,” he said.

Quareth smiled darkly, then changed the smile to a normal, placid smile. “I do not think so, Dark One. We have it well in hand here. But I do thank you for the offer.”

“Well, I am glad to hear that,” replied Fistandantilus. “If you need anything from me, you know where to find me.”

“That is, if you do not come to me first,” responded Quareth. “You seem to have an uncanny ability to know when you are needed.”

Fistandantilus bowed. “It is my pleasure to be of service,” he replied, and left the room. He therefore did not see the scowl that replaced the smile on Quareth’s face. Not that he needed to. He knew Quareth’s feelings towards him.

Finding himself in a spot where he was not seen, he quickly cast an invisibility spell on himself and stood there, listening. But it did not take long for him to determine that Quareth really did have things planned out. Most odd. Normally something like this took time to figure out how to do things.

It was almost as if Quareth had experience in situations like this.

Leaving, he wandered over to the dining area and partook of a nice fish dinner. Given a glass of wine, a clear elvish variety he discovered, he sat down and while he ate thought about what needed to be done.

It was evident that Quareth was doing a fine job organizing the selling of the slaves in the prison. Too fine a job for someone so new to it. It was almost as if the elf had experience in the institution. Maybe he came from one of the slave-owning great houses of Silvanesti. Fistandantilus resolved to look up Quareth’s history to see what evil lurked in the dark corners of his life.

With that decided, he considered what he could do. There was little he could do at the moment that would advance his plans, well little he could do other than developing his workspace. He therefore resolved to spend the next few hours doing just that. He decided to finish the experimental room and get some cages transported into it.

Finishing his dinner, he handed the plate to a passing servant then went to his rooms.

He would be busy for several hours.

Two weeks later, the first of the prisoners were sold at the weekly slave auction.

******

No citizen of Istar could remember when the slave auction began. Some say that it began in the days of the Ergothian Empire, before Vinas Solamnas created the nation of Solamnia. Some say it began during the age of dreams. All agree that it has been there for centuries and that it was the foundation of the city of Istar.

According to tradition, the founder of the slave auction was a man known as Jack Smiley. Known as a mean individual who reputedly worshipped Hiddukel, the God of Tarnished Wealth, he reputedly smiled every time he made an illegal sale. His favorite sales involved slaves. But this presented a problem because while it was legal to own or buy a slave, it was illegal to sell a slave. Jack solved the problem by setting up shop in the quiet village of Istar where there was no enforcement of the laws selling slaves. For several weeks he had no sales. But he kept to it, knowing that he really had nowhere else to go. Besides, he had a feeling. It was not long before some rich person chanced upon the slave auction and bought a slave. Within a few weeks Jack had sold the entire lot and was smiling from ear to ear.

One would think that the empire that controlled Istar would have moved in to close down the slave trade, but it did not happen. That is because the powerful Ergothian and Baliforian empires were glaring at each other ready to launch all-out war if either tried to move into the region. As both laid claim to the region around Istar yet neither wanted the other to move in, they both left Istar to fend for itself.

The slaves sold at the slave auction came from all over Ansalon. Dwarves from Thorbardin and the Iron Hills, dark skinned men from Ergoth, lighter skinned men from the Abanasinian planes and Balifor, Silvanesti and Kageven elves from the various forest regions as well as other races were sold at the slave auction. There were even rumors of an underground elvish race that was sold as well. Of course, people objected to being slaves, so the auction depended on slavers who went around, capturing people wherever they could. But the slavers, always seeking easy money, soon were buying slaves from all the other peoples who captured the slaves for them. But they quickly stopped buying the Silvanesti elves – the Silvanesti had a thing about their own being sold and they had the archery skill to enforce it. This was quite ironic considering the Silvanesti loved to own slaves, especially elvish slaves, but the Silvanesti made it a point – elves were to be owned by elves alone. This was the reason in the eventual decline in the number of Kagonesti slaves as well, and prevented the eventual purchase of Qualinesti when that nation was established.

By the time Jack died, the slave industry in Istar was not only well established, it was growing. People were traveling from all over Ansalon to buy slaves. Naturally other businesses had moved in to support the booming slave industry and the village of Istar grew from a village to a town, then to a city, then larger. Various temples to the various gods, especially Paladine, Mishikal and Gilean were established, providing for the spiritual edification of the inhabitants. But it was when the Emperor Bael moved his capital from Balifor to Istar that the city really came into its own. When the last emperor died, continuity of government was achieved when the Kingpriest assumed overall authority for the empire.

So everything was going smoothly, the slavers obtained slaves by whatever means necessary, the slaves were auctioned off, treated well for the most part and eventually allowed to purchase their own freedom. It seemed to be the perfect solution for all the prisoners in the prisons of Istar. And it was, except for one tiny little detail that took everyone by surprise.

When the prisoners were brought to the auction block, there were so many slaves for sale that the price of slaves simply plummeted.

Naturally the slavers who had gone all out to obtain slaves for the auction were the ones who suffered the greatest loss. Naturally they were absolutely furious. Some of them went so far as to express their dissatisfaction in very blatant ways. They got violent. Those who did so were sold the next week. The others, well some of them found other trades to do, while the remainder began to travel larger routes to obtain slaves. The number of slaves being sold to the slavers diminished, but the slavers who remained were able to obtain a decent living.

When the prisoners were sold it was observed that there were already laws in place concerning the fair treatment of slaves. But as it was not deemed enough. The situation was deemed rectified when other laws were established that allowed slaves to regain their freedom in certain situations. This allowed the temple government to tell itself that the slaves were not only well treated, but the institution was beneficial for everyone involved, including the slaves. It was considered to be an oddity but almost always the ones who did not agree about the beneficial properties of slavery were the slaves themselves. But as they were slaves their word was not accepted. Besides, sometimes a slave would gain their freedom then purchase slaves of their own, this was used as proof of the beneficial nature of slavery.

Unfortunately, though the laws concerning slavery were considered just and fair, the laws were not always properly enforced. In fact quite often if the owner was powerful enough they were a law unto themselves who mistreated their slaves to their hearts content. But such mistreatment was always covert; if it became blatant or well known the government was usually forced to act.

In addition, there was one small problem. There were two classes of criminals who nobody would buy.

One of them were kender. The light fingered kender could come and go anywhere they wanted to, they would be arrested, put on the block and nobody wanted to buy them. It must be admitted that kender built their own reputation, always breaking out of anything, always escaping, always seeking out something new and interesting, it was commonly accepted that the most dangerous thing in the world was a kender who was bored. Considering that a stout warrior would prefer to face a legion of ogres, an army of goblins and the fifty most dangerous wizards of all times over having to stay in the same room with a kender, well it was quite apparent why kender could not be sold. True, the temple had a few kender slaves who worked in the kitchens and there were kender clerics who went about the temple freely, but for the most part kender were considered to be the nuisances that they were. This was solved by taking every kender in the prison and marching them outside the city early every morning. It did not stop them from reentering the city, but more often than not the kender’s curiosity led them away from the city so that was all to the good.

The other were those who had committed the heinous crimes. Almost nobody would take a murder, a few who were obviously grief stricken over an accidental murder would sometimes be purchased but they were rare, and nobody would touch a rapist. The insane were also politely ignored. This would have caused all sorts of problems in the prisons except that the temple also owned opal mines. The mines were run by a human named Haarold Roarks. He was a mean man whose only interest lay in the making of money, lots of money. His only skill was in mining, so he had managed to arrange a deal with the temple; in exchange for managing their mines he would receive a percentage of the profits. Quareth had granted the human the position desired, Haarold had made changes that turned the mines into a very efficient organization and everyone was content.

Haarold made the mines efficient by purchasing slaves and sending them to the mines. Initially he had tried to purchase all the slaves, but it quickly became apparent that this would not work. But once the temple began selling prisoners as slaves it became obvious to Haarold that there were all these prisoners whom nobody wanted, for obvious reasons. Haarold gleefully grabbed each and every one on the cheap and herded them into the mines. Nobody cared that when these slaves entered the mines they never left or saw the light of day again.

So, the temple was able to deal with all the prisoners. Within a month they had emptied their prisons and their coffers were fuller than before. The kingpriest was happy because all the prisoners were now being beneficially guided towards Paladine. Quareth was happy because the humans who were slaves were being given the structure they needed to prevent them from destroying themselves due to the principle of freedom granted them by Gilean. And the temple accountant was happy because the coffers were receiving more money than before, it allowed the priests to purchase more luxury items than they had before. Everyone was happy and well content with the situation.

This occurred just in time, for the situation slowly began to deteriorate in Istar.

The first sign of trouble came when the knights raided the home of a noble lord who was hosting underground Games. As the Games had been closed this was highly illegal. Several corpses were dug up, providing evidence against the lord and his staff. Everyone who was there, well everyone who was caught for some managed to escape, were sold the next week.

After several weeks of this, all reports of illegal Games stopped. For a few months everything seemed to be fine. Everyone did their job or their duty. Wandering troubadours continued to ply their trade. Young people continued to stare dreamily at one of the moons. As far as everyone in the temple was concerned, Ptalamir’s decision had been the right one.

Then the real trouble began.

It began mildly enough. Just a few more cases of bar fights than normal, but nothing serious. A minor blip in an otherwise calm and placid environment. Except that this minor blip continued to grow, becoming a major blip, then a very real trend. Anger and hostility began to become apparent amongst the human population and the elves could not figure out the cause of it.

Over time more reports trickled in. People were starting to pick fights for seemingly no apparent reason. Anger and unrest was erupting everywhere. Hostility was exploding. And worst of all, according to the elves, they were even being targeted for attack.

“It is those mages,” declared the Kingpriest one day when the discussion turned towards the problem. “They are opposed to us. They know we are aware of their unnatural predisposition and want to get rid of them. They will do anything they can to hurt us.”

Fistandantilus smiled when he heard Ptalamir say that. It meant that he was obsessing about the mages and refused to look at the root cause of the situation. All he needed to do was to be patient, to let events take their course, and he would likely ride to the top on a wave of pure discontent with the current status quo.

Events continued to deteriorate in Istar. The bar fight became outright fistfights and often swordfights in other quarters. Arguments evolved into feuds which spread, spawning violence and mayhem. Battle lines slowly developed and the lands around istar divided into armed camps. One particularly nasty incident involved two lovers who came from two feuding families. The violence between the families got so extreme that the two lovers were caught up. He was eventually killed by members of her family and when she learned about the death she took her own life. In a story the two deaths would have caused the two families to examine their anger, realize that it was not worth letting it control them, and make peace between each other. Sadly, this was not a story.

In the middle of all this it was finally discovered that the Arena was not completely abandoned. Two people had taken up residence there, an ogre and a dwarf. It seemed that all they were doing was living there and taking care of the place, with the ogre sweeping the stands and the dwarf taking care of the machinery in the famous Death Pits. In the minds of certain individuals, this was not good. Quareth was all for arresting and selling them, but Ptalamir had heard a conversation concerning the two and provided his own opinion. As the two residents there were not hurting anything but seemed to be keeping the place clean, let them stay living there. Who knows, they might be planning to alter the Arena to something far more beneficial in nature. Taking the opinion as an order, Quareth dropped the issue.

Over a year passed before some of the elves started to voice the inevitable, necessary conclusion. It was becoming obvious that humans needed the Games. It were several of the elvish heads of the orders who voiced the reluctant conclusion. “It seems that the Games provided something that humans needed, something that kept them calm and rational,” one of them said. “Just as a volcano must erupt to let the steam and poisonous vapors escape from the ground, so it seems that humans, in particular, use the Games as an outlet for their baser emotions. We likely need to find something to replace the Games because otherwise there is an excellent chance that the humans will tear our beloved society apart.”

Fistandantilus was there when the heads of the orders finally admitted this to the Kingpriest. Long had he expected this. He knew that sooner or later sense would creep into everyone’s minds. To this end, he kept emphasizing the importance of preventing deaths. It made Ptalamir obsessed preventing the restarting of the Games. “Paladine will provide us with a solution,” he would say, “We simply need to keep adhering towards our purpose and a solution will be found.”

Fistandantilus had every reason to be content. The heads of the orders were tied to the Kingpriest. His word was law amongst them. They had to bow to his decisions. Add in the fact that they all saw him as being the Harbinger, well they were hoping that he was leading them through a tumultuous path towards a better world. Their hands were therefore tied. All Fistandantilus needed to do was to encourage this obsessive adherence towards life and everything would, sooner or later, come crashing to a halt.

And in the turmoil that would result, he could easily grab ultimate continentwide power which he would use to gain worldwide power.

Yes, everything was coming together very nicely.

And then, all his efforts came crashing to a halt.

He was there in the Hall of Audience with the Priestking, the Head of the Brethren and the heads of the orders trying to deal with a situation that had developed when a commotion was heard outside the Hall.

Initially the people in the Hall tried to ignore it, but the commotion kept getting louder. Business stopped and all eyes were riveted towards the doors. Suddenly, the doors flew open. Everyone, even Fistandantilus, stared in shock.

Striding in was a huge ogre. Scars creased his face and body, his muscles bulged out of his extremities. No fat was found in that yellowed, rock hard, highly muscular body. His warty face supported a huge and somewhat lopsided grin but intelligence was quite apparent in his eyes. To the people in the temple, nothing was suddenly more terrifying.

Before anyone could act, however, a voice cut into the sudden silence. “Step aside, Raag.”

The ogre stepped aside and a dwarf approached. Hard, lean, with scars crossing his face, his face was mean in a way that few dwarves ever got. But unlike the ogre, the dwarf was fully clothed. Still, the strength of the dwarf was apparent in the way he held himself as well as the way he moved.

Moving quickly, he walked towards the Kingpriest. As hands went to their weapons, the dwarf reached the center of the hall and stopped. Hands on his hips, he scowled as he glared at Ptalamir.

“You, kingpriest,” he growled. “We need to talk about the situation around us. Now!”

As everyone was stunned by the audacity of the dwarf, Quareth found the courage to speak up. “Who are you to come barging into the presence of the Kingpriest,” he demanded.

“Arack Rockbreaker at your service,” the dwarf replied glancing at Quareth. Then, returning his gaze to the Kingpriest, he continued on. “We need to talk about the developing disaster. I know what needs to be done about it.”

Arack Rockbreaker was one of the great retired gladiators of the Games. His companion was the ogre Raag. The two had remained in the Arena when all the other gladiators had left. It had been with sorrow that the two saw all their friends leave. But it must be admitted that the sorrow was not so much for losing their friends as for losing the outlet the Games gave their violent natures. But the two remained. And it was at the instigation of the dwarf that the two remained.

Raag was totally despondent, he was convinced an era had ended. But Arack managed to keep Raag busy and interested. This may seem strange, but after the two had defeated the Minotaur Darmoork, they had formed an actual friendship. In fact, the ogre was likely the only friend the dwarf ever had. Between the two of them they had kept the apparatus of the Games in working order, kept the stands clean and cleaned out the cells where the gladiators had lived.

Arack was convinced the Games were not finished. Not yet. It would take more than the wish of the Kingpriest to end the Games. He knew the propensity that humans had, the need for excitement, that all humans with their incredibly short lives suffered. Humans needed an outlet for that need, something that gave them the excitement they desperately craved. Without the Games the only legitimate excitement they could get was the glory found in war. But this was anathema towards the now dominant elves and the exceedingly good kingpriest who truly did not understand his own.

As there was no legitimate outlet for their need for excitement, humans turned towards illegitimate outlets. Bar brawls, confrontations, even violence, began to occur in greater amounts in Istar. The earliest perpetrators had been sold as slaves, but as more continued to commit violence even the elves had realized that the Games had provided a useful function taming the humans. They did not understand humanity nor its needs. But Arack did. But as time continued and the Games were not resumed, Arack realized he would have to deal with the sensibilities of the elves and the reputed goodness of the Kingpriest. Quietly, he laid his plans, hinting to Raag that the time for the resumption of the Games was coming, that they would be the ones who would see the Games restored.

Finally, he brought Raag fully into his plans. Carefully they rehearsed an act that they intended to do in the Hall of Audience. Then, when Arack felt Raag was ready, they left for the temple. Raag had been excited at the chance of maybe bashing a few heads in the Temple, it was with some sorrow that Arack had to discourage his friend from being as violent as he wanted to. But Raag got the idea. Instead of a trail of mayhem and death, Raag only tossed a few people around, knocked some swords out of their owners hands, gave a few people some headaches and made it so that Arack could walk straight up to the Kingpriest.

The priests and the knights were glaring at the dwarf and ogre as they stood there. Raag was grinning, he had enjoyed throwing people around. Arack, however, was serious, staring hard at the Kingpriest, the one who had shut down the precious Games. He knew this was the person who needed to be convinced, more than anyone else.

“This had better be good, dwarf,” stated Quareth in what was obviously a threatening manner.

“Oh it is, it is, I assure you m’lord,” replied Arack. “It concerns all the violence that is erupting in Istar, some even at this very moment.”

Ptalamir motioned for the dwarf to speak.

“M’lords, I will not bore you with what you already know. We all know about the situation in Istar, the violence, the mayhem. You may know it better than I, and I was a gladiator who lived with violence. I will therefore say the blunt truth.”

“Humans need violence. Oh, they do not need it directly, they can be quite content simply watching it, to indulge in it vicariously. But they need it. Otherwise, they will become quite violent, as you all now know.”

“Because of this, they need the source of spectacular violence restored. The need the Games restored. Only the Games will give humans the violence they need to calm down,” concluded Arack.

For a few seconds there was quiet in the Hall. Then the voices erupted. “Impossible.” “No!” “That is filthy,” were among the exclamations given.

Arack stood there, staring at the Kingpriest. The kingpriest sat there staring at the dwarf. Finally, as the commotion ended, Arack resumed speaking.

“Come on! I know you all want order restored in Istar. How else can you do it? Humans need this outlet. They need the Games,” he said.

“Impossible, said one of the elvish priests. “It would mean the resumption of the killing in the arena.”

Arack immediately shook his head, issuing a gesture of negation. “No, no, no! It would not lead to that. Humans need the spectacle, they need the mayhem and the violence. Resuming the Games would give this to them in a controlled manner. And it can be done in such a way that nobody would need to be killed.”

“Impossible!” shouted an enraged Quareth.

“It’s possible. I know it,” rejoined Arack. “If you will….”

Arack paused, realizing that the moment for the carefully prepared demonstration was at hand. Only this would convinced these mighty elvish lords and humans devoted towards peace that what he was proposing was not only possible, it was viable.

“Better yet, m’lords, let me show you,” Arack shouted as he quickly went to what he had planned. “RAAG!” he shouted.

The ogre lumbered up, grinning. The knight guard prepared to draw their swords. Mayhem and violence was expected. It would not be pretty.

“Give me your sword Raag,” Arack received the ogre’s sword then turned the sword around and calmly stabbed Raag.

Raag grimaced. He clutched his abdomen, bent over and groaned. It was a sorrowful display. The ogre leaned forward more, fell on the floor and stopped moving.

Chaos erupted. Elves were crying out in dismay. Humans were fainting from shock. Quareth motioned for Sir Raymond to deal with the dwarf. Swords were drawn as the knights started to move to capture, or kill, the dwarf.

Arack let Raag lay there for a few seconds, then he calmly kicked the ogre. “You can get up now Raag,” he said, though few heard him.

As hands were laid on the dwarf, the ogre started to move. As the knights prepared to clamp Arack in chains, Raag stood up. His face showed a lopsided grin but he was clearly alive.

Everyone stopped and stared. Even Quareth. Even the Kingpriest. Fistandantilus, who was there, realized what was happening, but he kept his silence. His plans were being outwitted and he was furious, but he did not want to ruin all that he had gained.

Then the babble resumed. But it was more the babble of astonishment than anything else. “Remarkable!” “How did you do it?” “Could this be the answer?”

Nerveless hands let the dwarf go. Arack went and stood next to his friend Raag who grinned at Arack with a fierce joy.

As the babble subsided, Ptalamir asked Arack how he did it. In answer, Arack picked up the sword, put his hand onto the tip, and shoved his hand down onto the blade.

Only the blade did not go through the hand. It seemed to disappear as the hand was shoved down to the pommel.

“A collapsible sword,” someone breathed. “A stage prop.”

“Yes,” shouted Arack. “A stage prop.” He then turned and looked sternly at everyone around him. “And _that_ is how humans can gain all the violence, mayhem and spectacle they need without even one death.”

“But that won’t provide humans with what they need,” someone protested.

“They will figure it out and will reject the Games,” another observed.

“Of course it will provide them with what they need,” Arack roared. “Listen,” he resumed more quietly, “I have it all figured out. The gulls will eat it all up. You worry about them not knowing? Let them know! Tell them all! They will still love it.”

“Take Raag here,” he motioned towards a grinning Raag. “You saw how he ‘died’ just now. If he ‘died” in the arena, his supporters will weep and moan and cry out while those who support his opponent will rejoice over the death of Raag. Yet a few weeks later, it will be the opponent’s supporters who will weep and moan while Raag’s supporters will rejoice over his victory.”

“And they won’t care!” he shouted. “Let them know it is fake. They will still come and support it. They will still get all the violence and mayhem they could want. And they will be much calmer, much calmer, for being able to watch the Games.”

“How did you do all the blood,” one of the priests asked.

“You have seen the plays of Huma,” replied the exasperated dwarf, “how the knight or enemy is killed, bleeds a violent death, yet later that night is seen in the tavern drinking up a storm. Same principle. Some chicken blood, some dark colored water, all in bladders carefully concealed. Oh yes, the gulls will drink it all up.”

“I knew they would go for it,” he exclaimed to Raag later that night while rubbing his hands in glee. “It will solve all of their problems and it allows us to at least present a spectacle.”

“No deaths,” lamented Raag.

“Yea, no deaths,” acknowledged Arack. “But what do you expect with elves. This is the best we can get and by Reorx, we got it!”

“You the master,” grinned Raag.

“Yea,” agreed Arack. “I must admit, that was a touch I did not expect, being appointed Master of the Games. But I like it. And I will build it up. They’ll come from miles around just to attend the Games. We won’t even have to advertise it much”

******

Several weeks later, notices were being posted throughout the Istarian Empire. A few of the old gladiators returned, though half of them left in disgust. The others trained in their acting abilities. The temple even provided Arack a number of slaves to turn into gladiators, this he and Raag proceeded to do with glee.

Many voices rose up. Some claimed that the Games were just a way to resume the killing. Others claimed that the humans would never accept the fakery, would not be soothed by the fake violence, that they needed actual killing in order to reduce their blood lust. Arack, however, continued his counsel, convinced it would work out and that the violence in Istar would start to drop once the Games were resumed – even if nobody died in the arena.

The day the Games resumed dawned bright and early on a midsummer morning. The crowds arrived, all anticipating the excitement they would be able to enjoy as the Games finally resumed. Families arrived dressed in their finest. Bachelors arrived ready to shout and yell, women arrived ready to scream. Fathers herded their daughters up into the stands while old men started to talk to each other about the good ol days in the Arena. Everyone arrived waiting for a spectacle.

Astonishment spread through the crowd as the Kingpriest himself sat in the throne reserved for the head of the empire. He had not attended a game, ever, his presence was a shock to everyone. With him was the entire court of the temple. They sat down, waiting to observe the spectacle. Arack, seeing the Kingpriest in the stands, grinned. He had quite the spectacle planned.

Everyone was expecting the event to crash and burn, but Arack presented a grand spectacle. The gladiators all marched in, weapons raised saluting the Kingpriest. Then they got down to business. The first fight was quite memorable. The fires in the Death Pits burned fiercely as a dark skinned human leapt over the flames, to the roar of the crowd. The amazon warrior was fierce, her hair tied back in a ponytail while she fought with trident and net, many of the male spectators decided they were in love with her. The two danced around each other, snarling in mock rage. When she tried to spear him, he danced to the side, captured the trident and pulled. She went down, to the groan of many men in the audience, and he leapt forward ready to stab her. But at the last second she rolled to the side, swung her feet and knocked him down, to a resounding cheer. The two grappled with each other, then broke apart as he reached for his sword and she rolled out of the way, finding her trident and standing. After a few more passes, the end of the fight came when the amazon speared the dark skinned man, who obligingly twirled, gasped and ‘died.’ After she pranced around him for a minute, she reached down and helped him up. He then bowed to the crowd along all directions of the compass. Finally, in an impromptu act that Arack had not scripted, after positioning himself in front of the amazon, the man thrust his sword backwards into her stomach. She obligingly doubled over and did an impromptu agony dance before sweeping her feet forward and knocking the man down. The crowd loved it as she stood over him, hands on her hips, glaring at him.

It must be noted that publicly she was glaring at him. Actually they were barely holding back their laughter.

Arack loved it and decided to allow such acts in the future.

The Kingpriest left soon after the first bout ended, but the rest of the day continued at the same pace. The crowd roared and groaned with each feat of skill and daring performed, they cheered for each new favorite who won and screamed in agony over each new favorite who ‘died.’ But as the day ended it became apparent that the day was a rousing success. Plenty of spectacle occurred, the audience had exhausted themselves and nobody had died.

“We can advertise all we want to draw the gulls in,” exclaimed Arack, rubbing his hands in glee. “We can even say that the Games have met with the approval of the Kingpriest himself. We just need a few more gladiators to present a massive spectacle.”

For the next several weeks there were almost no incidents occurring anywhere in Istar, all the talk was over the resumed Games. The members of the temple, seeing the evidence that the dwarf was right, dropped all opposition to the resumed Games. In fact, several went out of their way and bought one of the obdurate slaves who would have normally been sold to the mines; they sent them to the Arena and paid Arack to train them, then present them. Quareth descended from the temple and had an agent buy one of those slaves. Arack, with Raag’s help, trained them, within several months the new gladiators were presented, allowing a lengthened show. In fact, these were so successful that it was not long before Arack was occasionally bidding against Haarold.

It was obvious to all that the resumed Games were a resounding success. The humans loved the Games, it gave them an outlet they desperately needed. The elves loved the Games, it calmed the humans without anyone dying. The gladiators loved the Games, it let them express themselves in ways they needed to. And the general population, enjoying peace thanks to the Games, gave their thanks.

Yet the success was not appreciated by all. Fistandantilus, wandering the streets one night, was seriously disappointed. He had been so hoping that the cancelled Games would continuously increase the pressure on the temple till it collapsed. He had planned to ride the tide of discontent to total power. Now, thanks to the evil wisdom of an unforeseen dwarf, everyone was happy again.

Oh well. Istar was not built in a day. He was playing for high stakes. Very high stakes indeed. He had other options, other plans. Though seriously, they were for the most part long term plans.

He supposed he would have to aid the Kingpriest in his war against the conclave. It was not something he wanted to do, but now his hands were tied. Still, there was another year or so before he would be expected to produce the spells. He wondered if he would be able to come up with something.

Still, he would have to keep his eyes and ears open. The kingpriest selling the prisoners of the state into slavery showed how far Takhisis’s reach was. One never knew when an opportunity would present itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be surprising that Fistandantilus is a minor character in this chapter, but it is true. Not that he did nothing; he had laid the groundwork in previous chapters. His disappointment at the end of this chapter is obvious.
> 
> But this chapter really revolves around Ptalamir the Kingpriest, and his chief aid Quareth. They are the good people of this story, the really good people. Especially for Ptalamir, evil is something he just does not understand. It is for this reason we have seen him doing some really boneheaded deeds for the best of reasons. I mean, unless one is truly evil who doesn't want to save lives? And along with saving lives, redeeming lives is another very good desire. But while the goal was quite laudible, the means was far less. Their was a reason why the games of Rome were so popular, it is the same reason why modern day sports is so popular as well. In the reasoning I use I am limited somewhat by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman's writings in their "Time of the Twins" novel, but I did manage to impart some of that reasoning. I also showed similar reasoning for slavery as was used by some of the leadership of the French Revolution. Crazy reasoning was used then to kill people in order to help people, and crazy reasoning was used to enslave people in order to redeem people.
> 
> At home, work has resumed and I am getting things done. But like I said, the chapters are right now harder. The next one is proving to be really difficult. But it will come out. Just not certain when.


End file.
